Fiction

Homeless Life

The sounds of honking cars woke me from my sleep. From my crusted eyes I saw black, leather shoes of the successful march past me. “Click, click, click”, a pair of shoes went.

I reached into my pants to scratch my groin. I felt a warm sense of wetness. I pissed myself last night unknowingly. My balls itched. Scratching them furiously, I watched as a pigeon picked at a half-eaten bagel.

The wind picked up a pile of leaves next to me. The newspapers used as blankets covering me blew away. I lay soaked in piss with my hand scratching my sore balls when a man in a suite walked past me. He knows I’m there, but he keeps in his own little world, ignoring me. He stays in his dimension while I stay in mine.

The subway screeches by when I pull my hands out of my pants. Blood, puss and piss cover my fingertips. My fingernails are black from dirt. I bite my middle fingernail and chew on the ripped off piece.

My belly grumbles from the bowels of my unfed innards. My head aches from lack of sleep. Lack of water. Lack of food. Whatever. I struggle to standup. Black spots cloud my vision. I rest my hands on my knees for support as I breath heavily. My groin itches again.

Food. Water. Drugs. I need them in that order. Through the corner of my eye the pigeon continues to peck at the bagel. Pigeons live on the street. They are beggars like me. Scum. Unwanted. Many similarities. But they always seem to do better than me. Always.

I let the pigeon continue to eat. There’s probably something better in that garbage can I think to myself.

I stumble across the sidewalk away from my piss covered newspaper bed. Grayish, brown, mangey hair rests over my bloodshot eyes. There is so much crust in my left eye I wince when I try to open it. My brown, holey pants are covered in piss. My big toe on my right foot starts to bleed when it scrapes a jagged edge on the sidewalk.

The garbage can is half full. I dig through it like a madman looking for breakfast. Trash flies this way, that way. A woman walks past me taking notice. I catch the glimpse of disgust on her face. Blood boiling, I yell incomprehensible words. Spit flies out of my broken mouth. Blood rushes through me. The sound of taxies honking can’t muffle my rage.

The woman walks faster, turning her head for one last look at the monster behind her. Her eyes are frightened. Brown hair blows over her shoulders. High heels clicking faster. I feel a bulge in my pants harden. I think about shoving my infected dick in her hole, releasing my puss infected ooze inside of her. A dumpster across my calls my name. Food.

I hit the jackpot. A half-eaten box of pizza. The crust is stale. The cheese stinks from cooking in the sun. I think I hear rats under me. I continue to eat.

Beneath my feet is a crumpled Hustler magazine. I skim through the magazine while I eat pizza. I start feeling the bulge in my pants again. I proceed to lay down in the dumpster, pants to my ankles.

My dick looks broken. Covered in dried blood. Smelling of piss and homeless body odor. There is a scab on the shaft. I pull on it violently. The scab opens. Warm blood seeps through my fingers as I pleasure myself. A couple walks by the dumpster laughing as I spill my load. I finish the last bite of pizza.

Pants still down, I continue rummaging through the dumpster. I find a few beer cans with mouthfuls of warm beer still left in them. I swig from a half-filled bottle of dirty water as I scratch at my balls. Pulling my pants up I hop out of the dumpster.

Deranged thoughts of self-mutilation run though my mind. There are more people on the street now. The morning rush. My body begins to shake from the lack of drugs. I need a fix.

I’m out of money. Nothing. It will take me hours to scrounge up enough change begging. No time. I could stab a pedestrian, but I don’t think I have enough energy. I’m out of luck. Suicide.

I wander aimlessly. People walk past me in droves. Dark clouds cover the sun in the sky. I find myself on a pedestrian bridge over a highway. Cars race below me as I swing my legs over the side of the bridge.

The violent wind picks up as rain begins to fall. A loud burst of thunder echoes. I hold onto the edge of the bridge, legs swinging off. The last bit of energy begins to leave me. Life is running short. Blood begins to form at my fingers. I cough, grabbing my chest with my right hand.

At that moment life returns to me. How could I have forgotten. I feel for a plastic bag in my coat. The plastic bag has enough dope in it for one last hit. The rain pours down harder as a cracked smile forms at my mouth. My broken face.

Life returns. There is enough dope to put me out for a couple of hours. I swing my legs back to the ground of the bridge. It is at this moment I begin to appreciate the small moments in life. The rain that falls. The cars rushing under my feet. The drugs in my pocket. Today isn’t the day I die. I’m grateful for what I have.

Categories: Fiction

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