Stick Thin
Author's Notes
It’s not talked about too often, but Wyn grew up quite poor in his teens. This lead to him almost permanently staying with the Red family during his mid teens.
He counted the coins dutifully, the precious metal dropping together, thumping against the table and making a small clink! When they crashed together.
No.. that can’t be right.
He counted them again, and again, and again. He turned over the small bag that he had found on the wooden table this morning. Nothing came out. He searched the tiny kitchen, opening cupboard doors and looking under the sink.
They hadn’t left any more.
Wyn’s shoulder’s sank as he stared upon the meagre pile of coins he had been left in the night. It was less and less each month. Before he used to at least hear his parents, the familiar slam! Coming from the old wooden door had become comforting over time, although that never stopped it from startling him awake.
He rested his head in his hands, mentally calculating the costs for the month. He still had enough for rent, enough to keep him com open, but certainly not as much as he used to for food. Maybe if he skipped breakfast, cut down on lunch.. maybe Silka would let him eat dinner at his house once a week..
He cried out, summoning his dagger and throwing it into the wall. It stuck deep, and he snarled, seething at his parents' greed. He still saw them, walking through Victor, in new, shiny armour, always walking with different weapons. He knew how much they charged for their services, and yet they couldn’t be bothered to make sure to leave enough behind for their own son to eat.
He settled back down at the table, tears beginning to run down his face. His leg bounced furiously, up-down-up-down-up-down - it was something to focus on. People milled about outside his dimly lit house, he sniffled as he grabbed the golden envelope from the counter, putting the month's rent into it.
He shook his head and blinked furiously as he wiped the remaining tears off his face. Running his hands through his thick, messy hair in an attempt to make it look neat before tying it behind his head, pulling out his bangs gently.
He grabbed the envelope, opened the door, and took off down the road.
===
Three months later, Wyn looked close to death.
His parents never came back the month prior. He had scraped enough together from doing odd jobs, taking from his already tiny food funds, and - though he hated to admit it - the final bits he’d gotten from pickpocketing strangers who came to visit the Arena.
Even now, he swayed whenever he stood up, black spots taking over his vision, he always needed support. He hadn’t been able to eat properly in months, he’d stopped breakfast, then lunch, then had an apple for dinner.
Then his food fund ran out, so he took to taking a small piece of produce once a week. Never more, gods forbid he get caught. He’d tried to take up work at the blacksmith’s but after a few weeks he had so much trouble holding the heavy iron tools that he was told to go home and not come back.
He shook constantly. Yeah, summers were hot, but winters were worse. Wyn, born and raised Victorian, was certainly not built for the cold nor the wind that winter brought. A few years back he’d worn one of Silas’ old jackets home, and when it wasn’t asked for again, he cut off the extra arms and sewed it into a more fitting jacket. He had pretty much lived in the thing for the last month and a half.
His fireplace remained cold, although he had gotten some sticks earlier from various desert bushes, it wasn’t enough to stay lit for more then two hours tops, assuming he had collected a lot.
It was on one such day he had, and he shakily made his way other with his nearly broken flint and steel to light it. He was exhausted, and moving continuously wasn’t helping. He was up just long enough to make sure the fire would stay lit as long as possible. Then he fell asleep right in front of it, still half sitting up.