Shadow boy

It is a scary place. I can tell you myself, it's not pretty.

My name is Joel Harp Magister, and I am a leftover. A runt, I guess. I'm 16, 17 in just a week.

I prowl the dark, dirty, shaking appendages of New York City. The alleyways, where people get murdered. Or maybe raped. Drugged, mugged, pillaged, and shot up.

I'm an outcast, according to my parents, who supposedly left me in an empty bonfire bin in the middle of winter with nothing but a diaper and a blanket, and no name. And then they found me, named me. A gang, running from the police. They were going to kill me, until the lead lady spoke up.

She couldn't have kids, so she wanted me. Though she won the battle, her husband won the war. I have never been welcome anywhere. Not even with the people who found me, raised me, fed me, put clothes on my back. That's all they've done. No love. No hugs. Just running around, doing deeds for them, and still getting hurt from it.

Verbally abused, punched weekly. It was common practice at this point. To suffer. I always tell myself, it could be worse. But I always cry at the end of those little self to self conversations.

I know what your thinking. Just run away, you can survive. I've tried, and the gang almost killed me. Shoved a knife into my throat. I thought I would die. But there was only a small cut in the skin. It wasn't deep enough. Of course, the man that ruined my life was disappointed. He thought that would be the end of me.

Unfortunately, he still hadn't realized that I'm crazy stubborn, and I don't give up.

And I will do whatever the fucking hell it takes to get out of this shit.