Date: Fri, 21 Dec 2018 17:01:55 +0000 From: Bogan Subject: Former Street Rat 08 DONATE to NIFTY. If you can afford it, please donate to nifty. We all like this site and we don't want it to go away. People have been asking me how you can help a street rat. I hope this post helps. I have another chapter for Former Street Rat that I'll post on the 24 December. After that, it may be a bit before I get around to a new one. But if you need something clarified, I'll try to answer here. I am attempting to write a clear piece of narrative fiction. It's called, "The Academy." Thanks everyone, for your support. These stories are my memories. I might change names, places and other such detail, but they are my memories. If you wanna use the stuff in here as a jumping off point for your own stories, that is fine by me. Just remember, these are my memories. ************************************** Hey my friend, I see myself in you. And it hurts, To see you make the same mistakes. So I'd tell you, What I would've told myself. `cept I'm sure, That it won't matter anyway. I thought that I had explained the issue regarding trust. But I think that some of the people who wrote to me, didn't understand what I was trying to say. So how can you help a street rat? I'm not sure that you can. Imagine that you are in a room and it is filled with people. You are 13 years old. Everyone else is an adult. You are hungry. And one man hands you a biscuit. But as you reach for it, he pulls his hand away. And he laughs. And mocks you for even trying. He tells you that you're pathetic and stupid and that no-one could ever love you. Another man sees this and he scolds the first man. Then he turns to you and tells you that he is not like that other man. He hands you a biscuit, telling you that you can trust him. But when you reach for it, he pulls away and laughs. He calls you worthless and a loser. And that no one would ever be able to love you. Now imagine that a third man actually gives you a biscuit. His face is kind and so are his words. And he actually puts a biscuit in your hands. You eat it and he pats your back and tells you that everything is okay, now. But the biscuit is laced with something. And as you crumple onto the floor, as your stomach is wracked with pain, the room erupts in laughter. In this room, there is one man who is not a cunt. He is actually decent and generous. He hands you a biscuit and tells you that he is not like the rest. And he tells you that things will be different, now What do you do? He places it on the ground and tells you it is safe to eat. What would you do? After being lied to so many times. After being mocked and abused. Would you really accept another offer of a biscuit? I can only tell you my experience. It might not be the same for every street rat. Or every city or country. But this is what I saw and heard and felt. But there are small things that you could do. Food and clothes being the most basic. But there are other things. Maybe unique to us. I really don't know. Baths. I was probably alone in this, but god damn did I love to take a bath. See, there were times when we might go a week without a good scrub down. Not common, but far from unusual. So we used a wash rag, soap, and the sink. Gets the job done. But even when we would be able to scrub down, it was almost always a shower. So when I was presented with the opportunity to take a bath in relative safety, I took it. Sometimes it feels as if the cold gets into your bones and won't leave. Sometimes it rains for a month nonstop. And your clothes never get dry. And no matter what you do, you just can't get warm. So baths were a luxury for me. Sinking into water that was almost too hot to handle. And just soaking for an hour or two. Some tricks might offer you a quick shower but than they wanted you out as soon as possible. Their lust no longer overrode their guilt. And you became the focus for any anger or remorse. It was our fault for being 15 and needing money to buy food. So I took a bath when I had the chance. And when I felt it was safe enough. We tried to always be on guard, my group. Constantly suspicious. I think that is why me and Caz and Petey survived. So ideally, I was in a bath behind a locked door. But most of the time, the regulars wanted to watch you. I didn't care as long as they remained a certain distance. I didn't want anyone pushing my head underwater. So yeah, baths were a real luxury to me. Socks! There were a few places in our patch that sold socks and underpants. But the socks were really shoddy. At least by our standards. Maybe they were alright for mainstreamers. See, we did a lot of walking. Sometimes because Caz was a fucking bellend. He had a hate-on for public transportation. Never wanted to go on the underground or a bus. For the most part, we humoured him. But if a journey looked particularly difficult, we'd tell him he could walk alone. He always came with us. Grumbling all the way. But a lot of walking was common for all street rats. No mummy to drive us to school or the football pitch. So we went through a lot of socks and complained whenever they wore thin or got a hole in them. But sometimes you had the opportunity for thick woollen socks. The expensive ones that hikers and climbers use. They kept your feet warm and wicked away the moisture. Those were a luxury. And always keep in mind that we were just kids. And we liked a lot of the same things that other kids liked. Brian and I loved comic books and superheroes. Petey loved his gameboy. New games would drive him to ecstasy. And Caz...? What the fuck did Caz like? Bullying, fighting, drinking, moshing? Hahahahaha... Caz was the first one who told me the mantra of the street rat, "drink dance fight fuck." Books! Caz liked books. Well, we all liked books. We all read books. We'd go to this used bookstore regularly. But Caz was in a separate category. We all liked books, but Caz worshiped them. Back when he still had dreams, he had wanted to be a teacher. Food, can't forget food. I loved beef. I still love beef. And I don't mean little slivers of meat. I'm talking a whole steak, medium rare. Fuck, when I was on the streets, I could have gone into a pleasure coma by just smelling it. Brian, like most kids his age, loved McD's. There weren't any chain takeaways in our patch. Just families who made pizza, or chicken or chips. But Brian loved all the fast food corporate chains. And McD's was his absolute favourite. Besides money (which we would put in the pot), I can't think of anything else we'd accept. I'm probably missing some things. I mentioned some of these to a guy who wrote me asking how he could help street rats. But than I suddenly got this fear in my head, that he was going to use what I told him to fuck over a street rat. So I sorta cursed him at the end. But I still feel the same way right now. If you genuinely want to help a street rat, great. I wish you luck. But if you're going to abuse or exploit a street rat. If you are going to use this information to hurt `em, than I hope there really is a god and he'll rape you for eternity. Bogan nifty.bogan@protonmail.com