How much would you give up for change?

DeMain Rich. Not a name you really thought much of, at least not in any well-regarded lights. In a small town, DeMain had been born to a small family with no real ties to the area, and he was poor. Rusted gas oven and broken windows poor. Getting up early every Tuesday to be in the food pantry line before they ran out poor. You get the picture, and you've probably heard the story before. 

DeMain himself wasn't really a stand-out looker, among his peers he would probably be the least interesting one in appearance. Chestnut skin with some freckles across his nose and the rest of him coated in the wear and tear of late teenage years—acne, flaky skin, and uneven body hair. DeMain thought he was pretty basic in looks too. His hair was long, dense, and curly black, but it lacked any sheen to make it stand out and it was annoyingly coarse if he didn't treat it properly. Sometimes he put it into locks, but his parents claimed he'd look more 'professional' if it were shorter or eye-length at best, so he did when he could. Right now it was bound up into some bare-bones cornrows his mom had done for him, but it was mostly just to keep his hair flat and away from his ears and face. DeMain wished he could have a cool eye color like he saw occasionally in shows that played on shop TVs or in the demo games in some stores he visited, but unfortunately he'd been born with a deep brown that almost looked unnervingly black. 

DeMain's father, Isaiah Rich, was a mechanic who did mostly routine work in an auto shop. He wasn't skilled enough at the craft yet to do anything freelance or that could make them a lot of money, especially not in the beat-streets. His shop couldn't even pull the usual scam of upcharging gullible people because chances were they'd just decide not to pay, leaving both of them shit out of luck in the end. 

DeMain's mom was a sweet woman he almost forgot the name of with how little he referred to her as anything besides 'mom'. Her real name was Beatrice, but DeMain's dad typically just called her 'Bea'. She worked odd jobs here and there to try and cover costs where she could. Sometimes she'd babysit, she was nice enough looking that people didn't immediately distrust her. Kids with busy parents who had no time to watch them were plentiful in the area too, most of those who lived in-city were in the same situations. Bless his mother's charitable heart, she was too nice on costs, and sometimes she'd come back with less than she wanted for the sake of a single mom whose husband got stopped and jailed or… worse. 

Both of his parents had arrived fresh in town a few months ago after his dad's most recent factory job down south had gone out the window, meaning they had to move yet again to wherever the grass shone just a bit greener. He was at least able to keep some of the credentials, though few, since the previous factory dealt with automotive parts. 

This kind of thing happened all the time, and DeMain swore his family must be cursed. They used to go on picnics every Sunday after church, but his dad ended up working weekends to keep up with the influx of customers on those days. His mom decided to take him out to some ice cream shops when he was younger, but DeMain mostly refused this now because he didn't want to make her spend more money than she had to on him. Good things left faster than they came, but hope never quit. Maybe 'cursed' wasn't the right word for it, but they were all so busy that the few times they got together for actual dinners were more cherished moments than standard nightly events. It just made them look forward to it more, even if conversations were stale or topics were dry.

Things weren't comfortable, but DeMain's parents insisted things would turn to a brighter future if they just had a little faith. DeMain knew it was important to have hope and all that crap, but he felt bad watching his mom put their hard-earned savings into the church basket every week. She insisted that other people needed it more, but he didn't see anyone but the pastor pocketing the change. Still though, DeMain knew not to question her too hard about it, otherwise she'd lecture him for hours about how her faith had done miracles in the past. He didn't quite know how to explain it from the perspective of a 16 year-old that a mother would bother listening to, especially in a convincing way. This was made especially difficult since his parents insisted he focus all of his attention on his classes and graduate before getting a job to help out--basically, he had no adult responsibilities, and he couldn't question them on theirs. What a great situation to be in. 

It wasn't like DeMain wouldn't be charitable if he had the resources, but every hill he managed to climb always had a slope down at the end. He won a lottery ticket for some pocket change? His shoes broke, and he needed to buy new ones. He finds a lost dog and turns it in? The family suddenly 'can't afford' the posted reward, and turn him away as soon as their pet is back. Just one change of pace would be nice… 

Enough rambling though, DeMain wasn't especially happy to think about himself thoroughly, and he was even less happy to think about himself on the way to his house after a long day at school. He would love to tell someone about his days, but despite having freshly-made friends and hanging out with them until the street lights turned on, DeMain was starting to sink into the rhythms of repetition. His parents (sweetly) had acknowledged this and tried to change it up as best they could, but it was hard when they were living paycheck-to-paycheck, oftentimes even worse. Sometimes they bought him books from the dollar bin at the bookstore or checked out stories they thought he might like from the library, but they always either ended up lost, barely read, or sitting on his half-shelf in the corner to haunt him with regrets. He remembered quite clearly there was still a book stuck behind the shelf that he needed to bring back to its home library, but it'd been so long he doubted he could afford the return fees.

There were a few books he did love though, like an old collection of medieval fantasy— knights who rode horses stopping evil and saving the helpless. It was inspiring, but once DeMain put it down, all of the light of ideals faded away. What could he do?

DeMain opens the screeching screen door to his home, with it slamming shut way too fast and way too hard behind him to be safe for entering and exiting a building. The house was quiet, but it wasn't new, his parents were probably out trying to make ends meet like usual. His mother had been gaining a little traction in the neighborhood as a reliable, sweet woman, but he'd overheard from her recent conversations over the phone with his dad that one of her male clients had been becoming a bit of a hassle. DeMain's dad hadn't been happy to hear it, but there wasn't a lot he could do without getting fined somehow, and he didn't want to jeopardize their finances any more than they already were. 

The fridge opens, and DeMain stares at it coldly for a while. Colder than that broken-ass fridge could get, anyway. Jams, breads, buns, some homemade pancake batter, and… D batteries? His parents must be fucking exhausted, DeMain couldn't even think of anything that went with those batteries. 

A few mismatched knives and some cheap peanut butter over jelly later, DeMain was relaxing on the rug of the main room and listening to music over the old radio his parents had managed to snag from a garage sale as a means of staying in touch with the news, even kind of. Right now it was tuned to the 'Newest Pop Radio' which DeMain swore had been playing the same things for years. As soon as they started playing the hit one-off song he'd been hearing nonstop for the past month, he sat up, finished his sandwich, and decided to give the news a chance. Maybe politicians would finally elect to make changes that were good for his parents for once, and he could tell them about it when they got home. It didn't seem likely though. Right now it was all just celebrity newsent and scientific ravings about some phenomena occurring in the upper atmosphere. DeMain couldn't stand it after the next tirade of words he didn't care to comprehend, and he shut off the radio.

His bed wasn't far from the main room, their house was pretty small. It was tucked away between two abandoned apartment complexes and a bunch of other small houses in a big city. Locationally it was nice, but it wasn't ideal even if the neighborhood folk were decent. Gunshots, sirens, and random screams could sometimes be heard at the late hours of the night, so intermittently that DeMain had asked for earplugs so he could sleep just a little better. After all, there really wasn't much else for him to do at the end of a long day. He didn't have a phone he could call anyone on, he didn't have a computer he could play high-end games on. The house did have a computer, but it was a laptop that his mom and dad shared to do taxes and emails. 

DeMain couldn't stop thinking though, even as he laid his head on his pillow. He wished that something, anything would change for the better. He didn't really care what. In the past he would have begged for his parents to get a million dollars, or promotions, or for the church pastor to step in and help them out. Now he would take anything. He was tired of seeing them tired. 

Change had reared its ugly head a few weeks of monotony later. His dad had suffered an injury due to negligence of safety, and he'd been able to sue after a lawyer reached out to him about his predicament—it was essentially a cut and dry case. DeMain didn't know a whole lot about what happened, but he did know that the manager of the mechanic's shop had failed to replace some equipment and that it ended with his dad getting a completely broken leg. Despite all of this, it seemed like the money they were going to get out of it would barely keep them afloat. The shop owner had pulled some strings apparently, and the payout of the court case only left them with enough for the next month or so after lawyer costs and medical payments. They'd really been screwed, and now DeMain's dad was stuck at home until his leg healed. What had initially seemed hopeful was now something that made them all sitting ducks, and his family was going to be worse off. The only silver lining was that the shop couldn't technically fire him, but DeMain's dad said they'd probably look for the first opportunity to do so anyway. 

His dad had summed it up pretty well: 

"Shit sucks."

It did suck. More than suck. DeMain felt like they were being swallowed by a sinkhole and they only had spoons to dig themselves out. His parents had decided that his grades needed work and his dad had offered to help while he was stuck at home. DeMain appreciated being around his dad more, but he knew it was his dad still trying to be helpful. 

"Remember to carry over." 

"I know, dad." DeMain groaned. He could hear the stress building in his father's voice. It had been for the past few days, and it was starting to seep into DeMain like runoff rainwater. 

"You've been staring at that problem for a good five minutes. You do remember how a pencil works, right?" His father jokingly jabbed. Still, DeMain was lost in more thoughts than trigonometry. 

DeMain put his pencil down and sighed, pausing for a few moments. His dad crossed his arms, probably expecting another difficult math question or complaint. Something much heavier weighed on DeMain's shoulders though. 

"Dad, would you want me like…gone?" 

"What? DeMain, what the hell are you talking about?" 

"I mean… I-I don't know, we're so poor though. Wouldn't it have been easier for you guys to survive if you weren't spending so much on me? You could go to the movies, go out to dinner—lots of things." 

His father took some time to think and answer the question. DeMain was worried he'd just convinced his father to do something rash, but he felt so bad he wished he could ease their burdens any way possible. He waited until his father had the words to speak, his anxieties building. 

"No. No, don't ever think of yourself like that. We planned to have you, and raise you. I am… I wish I could give you a better life, but for people like us at the bottom of the barrel, we have to work for what we have. Some people will never understand what real motivation is, what real love is, DeMain."

His father scooted closer, awkwardly on his good leg.

"Look at me, DeMain. We had you so we could have something to love as much as we love each other. Things didn't go according to plan, I'll admit. We sunk a little lower than I'd ever've liked to. But you're not just a financial drain to us. We work hard so we can give you something back for all the joy you gave us, even if you don't remember it."

DeMain sat for a while, unable to say much before his dad pulled him into a long, tight hug. It felt sudden, but lasted just the right amount of time. 

"Your homework almost done?" His dad asks. 

"Oh. Uh… yeah. Just a few multiple choice questions left."

"Good. I gotta call your mom, we have to talk to the insurance guy tomorrow, maybe wrangle up a few more bucks. You finish up and sleep well." 

"… Thanks dad." 

His dad didn't respond, slapping the side of the doorframe twice instead. But DeMain knew what he meant. 

That night, there were three loud bangs on the door. It sounded so hard that it shook DeMain awake, and he wondered if someone had thrown stones at the screen. Lights blared outside, nearly blinding him with red and blue. DeMain knew something was up, and he threw on some pants and a loose tee to head over to the front door. Somehow, his dad had already beaten him there. A tall, bald, gristly looking man was standing in the doorframe, waving a bright beam of light in his dad's face. DeMain's father was able to walk, but barely, leaning his arm heavily against the side of the house while the officer questioned him. DeMain could barely make out what was being asked, but he was fairly certain the man had said 'insurance fraud'. It was a flash of events that he couldn't even process well in his dazed, tired stupor. Adrenaline was kicking in to keep him awake, but not nearly fast enough. 

DeMain saw his father stumble outside at the officer's request, only for him to trip over the porch stair. Immediately, his father had a pistol drawn to his head, the officer reacting as if his father had lunged at him. 

"Man I just tripped—"

"STAY DOWN." The officer cries, kicking his father in the ribs enough to cut him off. DeMain could hear a meaty thwap as the officer's boot connected, and what he thought sounded like a crack. 

"Shots fired, I repeat, shots fired!" 

What?! DeMain's family didn't even own a gun. How could he have—

A bullet ripped through the air, straight through DeMain's train of thought as blood splattered the dark, grassy lawn. His father went limp, stopping his speech. He didn't know how to react, he couldn't. A hand slipped over his and he struggled before his mother shushed him, pulling him away deeper into the house. 

"Mom! Let me—"

She hugged him tighter, and she felt her heaving breaths on his back as tears trickled down his neck. They held each other there in the dark of their rickety home, watching the bright lights slowly fade as the men fled the scene for the cleanup crew to take care of. 

About a week after the death of his father, DeMain was perched on the roof of one of the abandoned apartment complexes. He usually came up here to think when it wasn't filled with drunks or the homeless, which wasn't often. The dilapidated scent of booze and filth hung in the air, poisoning DeMain's thoughts. 

The police precinct had investigated the murder and found no evidence of corruption, placing officer Tomson Brandt on paid leave for the time being. No lawyer in the area would take the case for what they could offer, the police unions were too strong to break and this kind of thing 'happens all the time', so said one of the few who bothered to get back to them. They were supplied a free lawyer by law, but the overworked, underpaid, and disheveled attorney was limited in the time he could speak to them. By the end of the court case proceedings they'd only been given enough money to cover a small funeral service and to last a few weeks from there. Some more nets of cash rolled in from interviews about the incident, but DeMain was sheltered from the pestering questions by his mother who answered them instead. By the end, their given sum was still lacking. 

"Shit sucks." DeMain remembered. 

The only upside in any of this was that DeMain's mother had scraped together a place for them to stay. She mentioned she didn't like the client it came from, but it was better than staying in their current home and she was willing to go through with it for him. His mother planned for them to be there by next week, but it wasn't like they had a lot of stuff to move out in the first place. DeMain could maybe salvage some peanut butter but… 

God, it felt like there was no point. Helplessness weighed down on his every cell, lingering like it'd been seared into his fucking being. He hated it. DeMain wished he'd taken the bullet instead, or answered the door first or… anything. At least without him, his family could've gotten by a little bit easier. 

The words of DeMain's father roared in his ears, now sounding more like ridicule than a gentle reminder. It was as if his dad was shaking his shoulder from the grave, trying to wake him out of this, to get him to notice something important. 

What was there to notice? To evaluate further? The world fucking hated him. DeMain walked closer to the edge of the roof, looking down at the battered streets, homeless crowds, graffiti, and flickering street lights. He flinched, reminded briefly of how isolating his prison of a situation felt. 

DeMain turned his head skyward instead, watching the sky and the stars instead. Maybe if he'd been born a little smarter, a little richer, a little luckier—he could have already been someone to look up to. A model, an astronaut, a hero, a…

He stopped himself. DeMain was still very young, being half of those things wasn't really possible at this age, even if he were someone else entirely. It was strange though, how resilient he was. Usually by now he would have gone to sleep or wallowed in his feelings, but it was as if some sort of numb wall to his emotions had formed. Like his mind was trying to drag itself out of his rhythms of depression. Shouldn't he be sad? No, he was angry. DeMain wished anything about what happened could have happened differently. He wished that, maybe, he had a gun he could fire back at the officer for being such a lowlife coward. Maybe his dad would be alive, or maybe he'd just end up in jail. Probably neither. DeMain remembered the look in the officer's eye. He'd claimed he was afraid in the courtroom, but who in their right mind claims to be afraid of a crippled old man? 

DeMain knew he'd seen the cop smile after the shot had been fired, even as his mother dragged him away.