The Last Heir

5. Cell and The Male Voice

Voices continued as they gave themselves instructions on where to search and where not to. "But is there such a thing as 'you do not have to search that area'?" No one would hide in the dirt just to save his head. Isn't that the real place you should search for?

"For f**king sake, I can't be the only one arrested on the street!"

I continued to stare at the dumpster. None of the police had gone near it. Silly heads. They were looking into different houses and stores around.

"Why won't these blockheads just open the dumpsters, search the trash bags, and go into the silent corners of the bridge? These are real hideouts for the people living on the street."

"Let's go! We will come back another day!"

Two police officers got into the patrol car. But the patrol car was not the only car the police brought to the street. There was also a black van behind the patrol car, and over five officers jumped right back into it.

The car started, and the police officer who was in the driver's seat reached into the car’s locker and brought out a doughnut to eat. The one right next to him was no different. He held a soft drink in his hand and a hotdog roll that looked golden brown, with a slightly crispy exterior.

Who would torture a child with the aroma of a hint of yeast and butter? "My God, it also has the smoky aroma of being grilled or overcooked in an open flame. Just the way I dreamed it to be every day."

I have watched many vendors prepare it openly and sell it to many customers, but I have never had a taste of it. Even so, the aroma was so enticing that I could describe it if someone woke me from sleep, no matter what time of the day or night it was.

I swallowed my saliva as my stomach rumbled with hunger. I watched them from the back seat, opening my mouth each time they took a bite and swallowing each time they did. But no one cared for me. No wonder their stomachs grew out of their body, popping out like a man suffering from kwashiorkor.

"Stupid fowls, old things!" I exclaimed.

"Mind what you say. I do not want to hear your breath talk, let alone your voice," the other officer in the driver's seat said.

The car moved, and we arrived at the police station. The police officer got down and opened the door of the backseat. He pulled me out, held my neck, and pushed me forward as soon as my leg touched the ground.

For a person in a dirty top, a tattered big shirt, and slippers, I could see their eyes judging me, but all of those things did not matter. Every other person who did not live on the street judged me the same way.

However, not everyone judged me negatively. Some felt empathy, and that was it. Empathy was the height of it all because it was more painful than when people judged you in a bad manner.

Another lesson learned on the street: people will judge, and few will empathize, but no one would be ready to help. If you went too close to them, they screamed as if they had seen a ghost. If they had a bat in their hand, they'd hit you with it and not feel any remorse for what they did. They just want you out of their sight.

The memories of this flashed before me. The eyes the police officers stared at me as soon as I set foot in the station reminded me of people who had empathized with me before, but they still flushed a bucket of dirty water in my face. "Go away!" they screamed.

"Name!" she raised her voice again with a hiss.

"Marcus!" I answered, staring around at the welcome of a new environment. I had already chosen my room: a separate corner that was designed with iron bars. As it appeared, it was the only place left for me after all.

"Parents?"

"Hey! Don't fucking waste my time here; I don't have any time for this."

"You love the cell, huh?"

"Hey! Crampton! Lock him up. He won't talk!"

"Hey, Move it!" Another officer stood behind me. If I had waited before I stood to my feet, I could tell he was ready to push me to stand, but since I stood to my feet gently and walked by myself to the corner I had stared at before, he was lenient.

I walked inside the cell, and even before I turned, the sudden sound of metallic clanging and the rattling of keys filled my ears as the cell door was pushed closed.

I wondered what would happen from this moment on. Would they take me to jail? Would there be bullies there? Would the inmates there confront me for being new among them?

Slowly, I sat on the floor and squeezed myself into a fold with my head buried in my knees.

What came with this was a sudden memory of the first night I ran from the church to the street. A group of boys had come at me. At first, they stared at me, wondering what I looked like dressed up so cleanly among them.

Of course, I was scared, like a little child should be, with heavy breath on my chest, rising and falling like the hills.

They pushed me to the ground and...

"Where is he?" I heard suddenly. "Marcus!" the male called. However, I did not recognize the voice.

"Who locked him in the cell? Get him out this instant," he instructed, showing his ID card.