Starving

Darkness deteriorates and the world fades into my view. I recognize this dull feeling, this is the feeling of being alive, but there’s something about it that makes me bitter. My toes curl and shovel up dirt as my other senses begin to kick in. I try to breathe through my nose, but the mucus has frozen. I can’t find that disgusting anymore, seeing the situation I’m in now. I straighten out my legs which flop around; I can’t feel anything in them, just the cold that has covered this town. Without stimuli to distract me as I wait for my legs to wake up, I make effort not to dwell on my past. It’s difficult when the past is the only thing that lasts.

Standing up, I lean against the wall for support. The streets are just starting to become lively which is perfect because I see no other competition out so early. Maybe I’ll make ten dollars today. I slick back my hair in an attempt to look a little more decent and wipe the oily residue on my pants. This is my job, I panhandle. My home is an alleyway corner behind a convenience store that I regular. Life wasn’t always this pointless.

I had a muse, whom I wrote countless poems and stories for; my muse was my only passion to write. I was supported financially and emotionally, yet the fantasy I got to live ended all too soon. Perhaps I was at fault, taking and giving back worthless scraps of words. Those words that I've etched into my memory seem so empty now. Instead of moving my muse to laughter or tears in my writings, my failure to do so, moves me to tears.

Drowning myself in these memories, I’ve already wasted an hour standing here, and I’ve only gained forty-cents in my plastic cup. My face is coated in a layer of cold, I can feel something well up in my throat and my eyes start to water. Achoo!

“God bless you!” My eyes follow the voice down to a little girl. I can see my dirtied figure in the reflection of her bright brown eyes that gleam like the chocolates at the Swedish pastry shop. I've stood in front of that shop too long not to compare things to it.

“Thank you.” I reply immediately. She doesn’t go away though. On closer inspection there’s no adult with her. “Are you lost?”

She’s taken by surprise, but then points to the liquor store across the street from where we stood. “Daddy told me to not to get close to that store and wait for him!” She glances at the store we stood beside. “But then I saw these pretty dolls and wanted to see better.” I wanted to correct her grammar.

“They are pretty.” I agreed. The store’s window was filled up with porcelain dolls dressed in Lolita fashion and was owned by a hobbyist.

“Carmilla!” A male’s voice rang out.

“Daddy! I’m over here!” The little girl waves her father over.

I turn away from the doll shop to see the father of this girl with a handful of liquor cross the street. His expression was soft, tinted with concern and caution. I take a step away from ‘Carmilla’ just in-case he was on his defense and hid my face. I know this guy. He shouldn't remember me though, I mean, why would he? So, why am I scared..? After a few minutes I assume they’re gone and turn to face the sidewalk normally. A bill drifts into my cup, the most money I’ve seen in ages, a fifty-dollar bill. I look up from my cup, but the man and his daughter are already walking away. Something wells up in my throat and my eyes begin to water again, but it isn’t a sneeze. I wish I could run after him and scream for pitying me so much, but my heart is weak. I can only be thankful for a passion I can’t reach.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 30.10.2012

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