PUNK PROSE: Garbage Kids by Dion Enis Nikci

The boy waited in the darkness until he was certain that they were gone, until he couldn’t hear their muffled giggles in anticipation. Then, he straightened his arms to reach the surface, imagining himself swimming, imagining the hard and soft things he pushed aside to be the resistance of clean water. Some of these things, though, were wet and stuck to his slim fingers, he didn’t know what they were, but the smell prickled in his nostrils. He remembered that this wasn’t water but that these were garbage bags, and he was just getting used to the stench.

He pushed the lid open and peeked halfway out of the garbage bin. The fresh air cooled him, it started to get hot in there. He turned to the street to see the empty alleyway but met the eyes of a girl instead. She was about his age, her hair was wild, pretty but in need of a wash. She wore a trench coat that was too big for her, making her appear smaller than she already was.

They stared at each other for a while. He decided to push himself out, landing so hard on the ground that ants crawled under his feet. His mouth twitched, showing her his unintended pain. She pinched him.

“Is it gone?” she said. “Is what gone?”
“The ants.”

He nodded. It wasn’t gone, but the pain in his arm distracted him from the tingling in his feet. There was no need to ask what had happened, she knew what had happened, and he considered that she was there when it happened, waiting, just like him, until they were gone, and for some unknown reason, waiting for the boy to come out. She waved for him to follow her. She sat next to the garbage bin by a cardboard box with a flower blanket in front of it and drawings scattered about. She picked up a water bottle and handed it to him. He drank.

“Do you like them?” she asked.
“I do. Where did you learn to draw?”
“I always drew stuff, I got better, and I am getting better, and I will get better,” she said. “I want to be an artist. Or I will be an artist.”

“You will be,” he said.
Her eyes glittered on him for a while, as if he read her the future. “And what do you want to be?” she asked.

The boy told her he didn’t know.
“You will know.”
Every day they met in that corner next to the garbage bin, and she taught him how to draw a line properly, how to draw over a line, how to sketch and outline, and to remember what you see. He asked her once, as they drew, if this was where she slept. She said, “Sometimes.” And when he asked why, she drew faster and cried. He didn’t ask again.

“Do you want to sleep here?” she said to the boy. “I can’t,” the boy said.
She didn’t ask why.

Many days had passed. They usually departed at the same time, but sometimes the girl came back later to sleep on the blanket or inside the cardboard with her drawings and the garbage bags.

One night, the boy came, too. He walked up to her slowly with his eyes fixed on where his mind had wandered off, and he slept beside her. She didn’t ask what happened, she knew not to. They looked at the stars then, the cold ground pushing through the cardboard, the drawings tightly around the girl's hand as the wind brushed past them, taking the smell of fresh urine on the wall with it. The streetlights were turned off for the moon to be the only light source that night, and they forgot about everything besides themselves.

Years passed.
They hadn’t seen each other every day for some time now. The boy must’ve gotten a job, she thought. The girl must’ve made new friends, he thought.

Then, when the boy went to see her, everything was gone. He searched the entire alleyway but found nothing. He sat on the dirty ground, looking out and waiting for her to appear from the street or behind the garbage bag to yell, "Surprise!" but that wouldn't happen. The wind rattled something beside him. By the garbage bin, stuck under its wheel, was a piece of paper. On it was the drawing of the boy and the girl sleeping on cardboard with a blanket of drawings. Stars flew over their heads, next to them stood a large garbage bin, which radiated nostalgia to the boy, despite the actual purpose of a garbage bin. The top right read, “Garbage kids”, in letters that felt peaceful, or thankful, letters that felt like time spent bravely by fragile bodies and strong minds. The boy smiled as tears filled his eyes, and he left with the drawing, taking it with him wherever he went until they saw each other again. Then he would give it back to her.

--Dion Enis Nikci