Isn't it ironic when your birthday falls on Christmas? Think about the people you share your birthday with. Jesus for one. How can you compare to him? He walked on water. How are you suppose to turn water into wine when your tap doesn't even run. Christmas… Bah humbug!
He didn't share his birthday with perfect little Jesus, but it was damn close enough. December thirtteenth, that was today. His birthday. The one day of the year that he could call his own. He didn't really have any friends to celebrate it with, but a party of one was more free and exciting than a group of kids all together. He's been out walking in the snow storm since school let out, just looking at the Christmas lights and window shopping. He stopped on main street, turning to look into one shop window. A pair of white name-brand running shoes made the glass a tease. One of his favorite things was to run. He practiced every day, running up hills and through alleys. He wanted those shoes so badly. The shoes on his feet were from a goodwill basket at the groccery store. They had holes and dirt on them when he picked them up for the first time. They hurt his feet, blistered his toes even.
He reached into his pocket, just to see how much money he had. Nothing… Not even a dust bunny. The money he had been saving from doing chores around the neighborhood had been spent last night on ramen noodles for him and his Mother. He didn't even bother to turn his pocket back into his pants. Instead he pressed his palms against the glass, staring at those snow white beauties. He imagined how fast he would run with a pair of those on his feet. Probably as fast as a rabid dog after a cat. He'd become a proffessional runner, and win all the races he entered.
The sun set, and the street lights came on. It was time to go home. Most children would have already gone home, their sleds dragged behind them and their coats and mittens keeping them warm. Not him. On his back was a hand-me-down t-shirt from one of his Mother's ex lovers. It was a very inappropriate shirt at that, advertising a local strip club. His jeans were badly roughed up, grass stains still clear on the knees. He tried to keep his hands inside his pockets, but every now and then a warm palm would emerge to rub a frostbitten elbow. It was only a tad bit amusing to watch his breath freeze into a white cloud. He could put two fingers to his lips and pretend to smoke. Just like Mommy.
The house he called home was passed down from his great grandfather, to his grandfather, to his mother. Someday he'd get the house he grew up in, and he'd be able to raise children of his own here. It was very small, only three bedrooms. They were so lucky they were as scrawny as they were, or else they'd have troubles fitting into the bathroom. It was a messy place, but he tried to keep up on house chores. They didn't own a vaccum cleaner, a mop, a broom or even a sponge. But he had his hands , paper plates, and rags of old clothes. It was only slightly warmer inside than it was outside. The walls stopped the wind and snow, but there was barely any insulation. He walked to his room and put on a few more shirts, just to keep warm.
"Edo?" A thick french accent called proceeding by a violant cough.
Leaving his room he looked into the first door on the right in the hallway.
"Oui Mere?" He answered.
"Viens ici…"
He approached an older woman. She was in her late twenties, early thirties. She put out a cigarette, coughing before an eerey smile turned towards the boy. She laid on a twin sized bed, having been looking out the window. Her clothes were shuffled, the neck hole ran down one of her boney shoulders.
"N'est-ce pas aujourd'hui votre anniversaire?"
"… Oui…?"
She never remembered his birthday… Why did she remember it today? Every year it was the same route taken. He'd fall asleep singing 'Happy Birthday' to himself. She stood, towering him by two feet or so. She knealt in front of the boy, brushing beautiful blonde hair from his face. Underneath the silk yellow laid a black eye, freshly made. She lifted his shirts, tossing his clothing to the side. His ribs were clear against the pale bruised skin.
"Un bain chaud suffire comme un cadeau?"
Her soft smile gave him false hope. He nodded and ran off to the kitchen, filling up the biggest pot he could find with water from the tap. His Mother walked in, taking the pot from him to be placed on the stove and heated up. The boy tugged at her long shirt.
"Vais-je recevoir de prendre le bain seul, cette fois?"
A small inward laugh was given. "Non, Edo. Pas cette fois."
He followed his Mother to the small bathroom, undressing and sitting in the tub. His smile was bright, waiting for the hot water. This wasn't everyday he got a hot bath. In fact this was a very rare occasion. It was a happy birthday indeed. The pot was placed inside the tub with him, a rag would suffice as a washcloth. The woman dipped the rag into the boiling water before smoothing over her son's skin.
"Serai-je me laver les cheveux?"
"Oui, s'il ya assez d'eau a gauche."
He giggled in delight. Not only would he have a bath, but he would get to wash his hair too. She cleaned his face and neck first, moving down to his chest and shoulders, to his navel and tail bone. He held out his arms to be washed and even held up his legs in case she couldn't reach. The water was really hot, it almost burned his skin. But he could handle it, it was a hot bath afterall. He looked into the pot, there was plenty of water to wash his hair with.
"Regarder! Ya assez d'eau a gauche!"
"Oui, ya assez…"
He watched as his Mother poured the entire pot of scorching water over his head. It burned his skin badly, but he bit his lip to keep from screaming. She could only laugh, watching her son squirm naked in the tub.
"Pourquoi n'allez-vous pas a l'exterieur et laissez le vent vous sechez-vous?"
With that she left, laughing. Returning to the room he found her in. He was left with no clothes to change into, and no towels to dry himself off with. But he did as he was mocked to do, and walked outside to let the freezing wind dry his burnt body.
For an hour he stood outside, freezing. He was waiting to be let back inside, because his Mother had  locked him out. A siren topped cop car pulled up, two policemen looking strangely at the boy on the porch as they exited their vechicle. A proffessional looking lady stepped out from the back seat of the car, and walked up to the boy. She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and smiled warmly at him to distract the boy from the yelling police to his left.
"Comment t'appelles-tu?" She asked.
"Je m'appelles… Edouard Lexus Brooks."