The Poor Boy

I lived in the streets of London and didn’t really have a name; sometimes I got called bum kid, filth or little bastard. But I realized that it was just because I lived in the dirt, I didn’t have any name and the dirt was my home. People saw me as a bug, a filthy bug. I begged for money and food, and sometimes I got a little of this and a little of that, I was sick and people didn’t think of me as a fellow human being, I was a trash kid and the boys who had parents and a home, teased and bullied me. I got my food from the trashcans, the leftovers were one of the things which kept me alive for each day but I realized that I couldn’t keep on like this.

Then one day, when I was strolling the alleys, a small group of normal living boys jumped me. They kicked and punched me in my stomach and head and spit on me, they said I was filthy and ugly and then they left me in a trash container.

Hours later someone heard me weeping in the trash container, I wasn’t able to move because I got beat up and my hands were numb of cold. The one who heard me was a nice lady called Mina Winter and she got scared of seeing me lying in the trash, she took me with her home and mended my bruises and wounds, she gave me food, a bath and a bed I could sleep in.