The Day Brings No Comfort.

A familiar feeling of dread would wash over me, with each time I’d take my last shower in any of our hotel rooms. This dull ache accompanied by a heavy punch to the stomach, and I was finally starting to get used to it. Getting used to being terrified is fucked up, but at least I didn’t vomit as much anymore. Maybe I was getting tougher. Or maybe, I was dead inside. Either way, I just swallowed it whole, refusing to choke. Sipping on the remains of rum from last night’s bottle and washing my body with obsessive repetition, before putting on my dirty clothes. Grabbing my underwear, which were hanging from the towel rack, that I would hand wash over the sink every night. Swiping hand towels and shoving them into my purse, along with single use shampoos and soaps. Lemon scented towelettes. I’d pull the curtains closed with wicked contempt for the sun, pouring in through the grim windows, exemplifying the city I had come to hate. Mocking me with its overwhelming light and I’d squint my eyes in pain. The day brings no comfort.

The forty-eight hours of counterfeit security was coming to a quick end and, today the restart button would get hit. The hell ride of a carnival rollercoaster was open for business and we’d be pushed out into the world just like every other homeless person hoping to survive for one more day. The urgency of our routine making slaves of us, as we’d spend the rest of the time looking for a place to sleep. Cautious of where to tread downtown, peering over our shoulders, paranoid and quick footed, making sure we wouldn’t run into Babyface. Or his buddy, the stalky Lebanese tank he rolled with. http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/11/21/half-in-half-out/ .The two of them were easy enough to spot, always shuffling around on street corners, spitting slang through whisky breath, and creeping up on young girls, as if the street was an open whore market.

Shit wasn’t just getting dark, it was getting dangerous. And I could feel the walls closing in on me. Thick and heavy, pushing me back. Stealing the air from my lungs, and I couldn’t breathe anymore. Grasping at some kind of life and everything that surrounded me, was cold, dead. Every one, swallowed up by the black monster that viciously patrolled the underworld of these streets.

God, please tell me this is You.

If it isn’t, I’m going to die.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s