six; groceries

This is a short story I wrote a long time ago for Literary Club. It's kind of awkward, and I haven't even read through it in a long time, but you know what? I don't care. Tell me what you think.

True held his mother’s hand tightly. His wide, striking blue eyes surveyed the scenery out the window of the bus. His fingers traced the contours of the hand which held his. He felt safe in her grasp, and smiled to himself. He turned to look at her, and found her boredom-filled eyes staring blankly ahead. He attempted to see what she was looking at, but was too short to see very well over the seat, and decided to forget it. Leaning forward slightly, he peered around his mother’s slight form. His blue eyes met those of a man sitting across from them. The man’s eyes were a dark, chocolate brown, and seemed to smile without the man having to do anything but look around. He wore naught more than rags, but he made up for his obvious poverty with his purity of soul. True could look at the man and see that he could do no harm. True smiled genuinely at the stranger, who suddenly looked down, as though he could feel himself being watched. The man’s warm brown eyes lit up at the sight of True looking at him. He grinned as well, and bent to bring his face in line with True’s. He winked, and True let out a giggle.
His mother looked down, to see her laughing child looking across her to a completely strange man. He smiled, and looked up at her. He met eyes with her, and said; “Ma’am, I’d say that’s a right nice boy you got there.”
She furrowed her eyebrows, jerking True back against the seat with her hand. She glared at the man, whose warm brown eyes widened in surprise. To True’s mother, however, those same eyes were full of nothing but lies and deceit. She was already throwing up her guards, ready to fend off any attempt at an advance that he made. True felt confused, and tugged on his mother’s sleeve, asking why she had pulled him back from the nice man. She shushed him and pulled him to his feet with much more gusto than was needed, and stepped off the bus as it arrived at their stop. The market.
True continued to pester his mother, until she pulled him to the side of the sidewalk and knelt down next to him.
“That was not a nice man, True,” she said, harshness in her voice. “You saw the way he dressed; he was obviously a danger to society!”
True remembered the man’s less than nice clothes, and looked down with shame at his own. He had only a few different shirts, and had worn his least dirty one to go out into public. His pants had holes in the knees, and what shoes he wore were so thin he might as well have not worn any at all. He briefly wondered if that meant he was a danger to society too. His clothes obviously did not bode well, but he felt they were not much better than what the man on the bus wore. His eyes clouded, and he thought of what his mother said. He continued thinking about it as she stood up and dragged him down the road to the entrance of the market.
They stepped in, and True’s mind was suddenly clear of worry as all the shiny objects that littered the tables entered his view. He grinned a boyish grin, and tried to dash away to where he saw a very old, tired looking black woman weaving baskets. He found himself jerked back instead, the grip on his hand tighter than ever. His body ached to go look at the baskets, but his mother’s restraining grip would not permit it. Instead, he glumly watched her fret over prices of foods, and listened to her attempt to haggle the prices to an affordable place.
It was after a moment that he realized his mother’s continuous stream of whines and negotiations had stopped, that he looked up. He found his hand empty.
It was all he could do not to scream. He felt abandoned, He turned and twisted, looking for a familiar waist to cling on to. He saw naught but a sea of unfamiliar bodies and not a single mother’s hip in sight. He started to run, hoping he could catch up with her, if only she had just left. He knocked into a man, and rebounded into a woman. Cries of indignation rose up as he tried to hurry his way through the crowd. He broke free into a small space of air, where no one appeared to be standing. He glanced around, and saw two people leaning against the pale, faded pink stone wall. He instantly recognized the face of his mother, and dashed up to her. He threw his arms around her waist, saying, “Mommy! Mommy I thought you left me!”
His mother looked down to see her son clinging to her. She rolled her eyes and unstuck him from her. She held his hand again, muttering about children overreacting.
Her eyes instead traveled up to the man in front of her. He was tall. Taller than True’s mother, which was a feat, in True’s eyes. He had short, messy brown hair, and very small, beady eyes. He glanced down at True, whose piercing blue eyes bored holes in those of the man. True suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and ran to the side of the road to retch. Even in an open air market, where everyone is pushing everyone else, people notice when a small boy retches loudly into a drain. At least, most people do.
True looked up from his puddle of sick to see his mother still chatting happily with the man who had caused True his sickness. His eyes suddenly felt full of tears, and he sat back on his haunches, willing himself not to cry. He didn’t want to look like a baby, especially if his mother saw. She always got irritated when he cried in public, but at home she comforted him. He crawled to the wall in which his mother was engaging the beady eyed man, and sat back against it. He took a deep breath, and tried to calm himself. No one stopped even for a moment to see if the red eyed, pale faced, sickly eight year old was okay. He closed his eyes, but only for a moment. He kept them instead on his mother, who he was afraid might leave him at any moment. Instead, she eventually turned away from the man, flashing him a smile and a wink, and stomped over to True. She picked him up by his arm and pulled him away into the crowd.
They made their way home by foot instead, all the while True being pulled along by the arm, while his mother carried a bag of groceries in the other.
“Mommy, do you want me to carry the groceries?” True asked, after a few moments of silence.
She did not respond.
True waited a while before repeating his question. This time, she stopped completely, and let go of True’s arm. Before he had time to react, she shoved the bag upon him, knocking him over backwards. A bottle of something fell out and smacked him in the head, followed by the entire contents of the shopping bag. Spilled out across the sidewalk, the goods were ruined. True hurriedly tried to stand up, and nearly fell down again. His head throbbed, and his vision swam. He looked up into his mothers eyes to find them furious. He quickly bent to try to salvage the still unbroken jars, and he hastily shoved them in the bag, as his mother began to storm away down the street. He grabbed what more he could, and, hefting the bag in front of him, trying not to drop it, he hurried after his infuriated mother.
For thirty-seven blocks she stormed ahead, quickly stomping. True tried to hurry as best he could, without dropping anymore produce items. When they got separated by a street light, he danced nervously, trying not to start crying. He didn’t know exactly the way home, and most certainly didn’t want to lose his mother, or the groceries, or his way. He ran after her, noticing that she not once glanced back to see if he was following. She stomped up the front steps of their faded yellow house and slammed the front door open. She also slammed it behind her, which True barely heard, huffing and puffing his way down the street, as fast as his small, tired legs could carry him.
He got to the door, and opened it gingerly, bringing the bag in with him. He went to the refrigerator, which was stuck shut, and pried it open enough to get the cold items in. By now they were lukewarm items, but he wanted to try anyway.
He heard his mother in their room, muttering angrily to herself, so he went outside and sat on the front porch step.
He stared morosely at the unkempt lawn, remembering when his father used to play with him in it. He sighed, squeezing his eyes tight, and permitting only a single tear to touch his lip, before letting himself go, with wracking sobs.