Everyone’s Fault (a Poisoned Iris short story)


His tailing had led him to a roof, where his target was staring at a huge painting depicting the face of a man half-gang member, half-Ravisher. Or maybe it was a Spotter. Stelios didn’t know.

What he did know, however, was that he hadn’t expected the kid who’d stolen the few tartars Demi had given him to be living on the top of a building with just a blanket, a bag, and a big picture painted on the facade of the building across the street as his only company. He’d been certain it was a Pilferer, a child either sold by his or her family or a runaway that the gangs used as a pickpocket, informer, or both. It turned out that this child was actually a Shadow, one of the young orphans who populated the streets. Maybe he hadn’t eaten for a while and this stolen money probably was his only hope to finally have something in his stomach... but Stelios had no choice. Demi, the old woman from the Refuge, counted on him to bring the drugs needed for some kids who were victims of the flu epidemic that was running rampant.

In addition to the fact that lives were at stake, he couldn’t disappoint the only woman, no, the only person who’d helped him without asking for anything in exchange.

“You gotta give back what you took,” Stelios finally said in a firm voice.

The child jumped before standing up hastily and turning around. The boy—who was actually a girl in spite of her dirty and very short blond hair—looked at him with big, frightened blue eyes.

“How—” the child stammered, looking bewildered.

She surely wasn’t used to finding herself face to face with one of her victims. Most probably realized the wrongdoing far too late. Shadows were known to be quick, skillful, and discreet, hence their name.

“I was a Pilferer. Among thieves, we recognize each other.”

The kid cast a quick glance toward the big picture, and when her face snapped back to his, her expression had gone from fear to rage.

“I am not like those of the gangs!” she said, offended.

It was Stelios’ turn to feel irritation surging through him.

“Really? The Pilferers steal, Shadows too, where’s the difference?”

“I—Gang people—they are...”

“Bad?” he suggested, guessing where she was going with it.

She nodded. Annoyed by this little thief, who claimed that all those who were in gangs were bad just because it was written on a wall with words and signs of the Street Dialect that Tartaros was hell because of them, Stelios approached her until there were just a couple of inches between them. Without a word, he held out his hand, palm open. She gave him his money back without giving him a hard time, rightly judging that she wasn’t a match for him.

“Gang people, as you say, aren’t any worse than all the others. They’re just people trying to survive like you. And contrary to what your damn drawing says, if this city is as it is, it’s everyone’s fault. Those who do nothing to stop those who do bad things are just as guilty as them.”

The kid looked at him, her face unreadable. Considering that their conversation was over and he got his tartars back, Stelios turned around and headed for the door leading to the inside of the building.

The door barely closed behind him before he froze, his last words echoing in his head. What a hypocrite he was. He preached great moral lessons but stood there, leaving behind a starving girl who was living in the street.

Sighing, he went back on the roof.

“Have you ever heard of the Refuge?” he said to her.