El is a tweaker. He didn't give a shit about the kid we found. He was passed out on his cot now, after shooting enough meth to kill a horse. Of course, it wouldn't kill him. He was pickled, mummified almost, after a decade of using the stuff. I looked at him, his filthy face, his sunken eyes and rotting mouth, his dirty sweatshirt stained in sweat and piss.
He was good with locks though, so I took him along. He was a coward, but he kept quiet as long as he got his fix. That, and I was worried if I told him no, he would stab me to death with the rusty switchblade he kept in his pocket.
I wasn't a tweaker. I used occasionally, but shit, if you was me, you would too. Homeless, loveless, history of abuse. Just like everyone on the street. At least I wasn't fucked in the head like most of them, although on nights like this, I wondered if that was a good thing.
I like the booze more than anything. But I mean, I wasn't out to hurt anyone. I just stole from those nice houses on the edges of the suburbs. It's not like I'm some sort of Robin Hood though, don't get me wrong. Just rob the wrong house in the ghetto, and you might walk into a kitchen that explodes, or a group of Norteños counting cash. They won't even hesitate to shoot, they'll do it without even looking at you. And even if it's some family home, they've got nothing to steal, just a dozen half-naked kids running around screaming, fighting over the spot near the AC where they can put their bug-infested sleeping bag. I get itchy just thinking about it.
It was dawning outside, I could see the slivers of grey sky through the boarded up windows. After a haul like this we would hole up in some condemned house for a few days, and wait to see if the cops decide to follow through. We wait it out, and move to the next place around dusk, along with the migration of the other hobos and vagrants. So far I hadn't been caught, and as far as the law goes I'm a squeaky clean, law abiding bum. Al's got a strike or two, but he doesn't seem to care. At least, I'd never seen him hesitate as he picked at all of those back door locks.
I looked at my canteen, filled with some strong smelling swill I picked up from that house. We weren't going anywhere today. Or tonight. Or tomorrow. I wondered if I was going anywhere at all.
The kid looked up at me. Boy or girl, I couldn't tell. Boy, probably. I hoped. Hair shorn in places, matted in others. Skin and bones. Bruises. Cuts. Empty, empty eyes. Dead eyes. Those damn eyes, haunting me. He didn't say anything, just looked.
El was in the bedroom working his way through the wife's jewelry. He was a master at it, picking out the good stuff in the dark with quick pecking motions. I had just come out of their game-room, my bag a Playstation heavier. Earlier I'd found some nice silverware, but it was the old whiskey I was really excited about. I met up with El, and was wandering around the room when I noticed the door. I absent-mindedly jiggled the handle - it was locked.
"El." I said. "Get over here, open this shit up." He grunted at me to wait a moment, then complied. I didn't expect to find anything, but I sure as hell didn't expect to find a kid.
The room itself was concrete. There was a tattered blanket in the corner, a bucket, a bowl with half eaten mush. And the dead-eyed kid, staring up at me. I looked back, a chill ran through me and my stomach dropped to the floor. He didn't move, he just sat against the far wall, staring. Five, six years old.
El was standing behind me. I couldn't see his expression, but it wasn't often that El stood still. I heard him rummaging in his pocket.
"I'm not going to prison." He said, as if he was trying to reassure himself. But he didn't move.
I didn't know what to do. I wasn't calling the cops. I wasn't taking this kid anywhere. My own childhood pain welled up inside me until I could hardly breath. I was shaking. But the kid made the decision for us. He got up, god knows how, and ran right at El. And El killed him. I'll never know if that's what El wanted, but the kid's neck snapped like a twig in a drought. He went limp instantly. He looked even smaller dead.
El was gentle with the body though. He put it back into the room, closed the door, and went back to the jewelry.
I stumbled downstairs, back to the booze cabinet. I pulled out the Playstation, the silverware, and filled my backpack with all the liquor I could. Every pocket had a bottle. What I couldn't fit, I drank right there. I spilled it everywhere. I threw bottles at the ground. El ran downstairs at the sound, bug-eyed, knife in hand. He gave me a contorted look, grabbed me and dragged me out through the back.
And here we are now.
In some version of this story, the kid survives. In some version, the kid grows up successful, in some version, he grows up to be me, or El. I'd seen lots of kids like him, they're everywhere in these parts. Beatings and starvation are a daily chore on the street. But these people, they are supposed to be better. Better than me. I had to believe that....that we weren't all these sick monsters inside. That there was really something out there to aspire to. That we could be better.
I emptied the canteen, and fell onto my dirty mattress. The same thought echoed through my head, and it seemed that no amount of booze could shut it up. This is the world we live in. Dying was the best thing to happen to that kid.