To read the post previous to this entry click the link as follows..~The Day Brings No Comfort~http://thisbeatingheart.com/2011/12/03/the-day-brings-no-comfort/
Exhausted, worn out, and terrified. Our faces showed it all. Two beautiful girls warped into a ragged homeless mess. Trembling hands and dead eyes. Bruised knees and torn up knuckles.The world had turned into something we would have never imagined, and so had we. We had done terrible things, and it wasn’t over yet. The days just kept coming, as they always do.
It’s hard to explain, the chill of darkness that covers a city, and the people in it, when your immersed in the middle of street life. Nothing is safe, and everyone’s a liar. Everything is cold, and warmth doesn’t exist. The ground you sit on is damp, and your stomach is always a deep void. The hunger that grows inside is a constant, and you are ever frozen, because you hardly exist. There is no comfort. There is no softness. There is no life. Everyone you cross paths with is dead, and you are too. You are expired.There are only smiles when money is made, and food, or shelter is an option. Smiles come, when you know you can take a shower today. There are smiles when, for one moment, you might feel human for a little while. And then, yet again, that feeling is ripped from your hands. Torn from your heart, because it never changes. To feel human, is a trap. You do inhumane things, to survive, because you are an animal. You believe that, you accept that. Because, that’s what makes sense. You behave like a vulture, because you are one. Eating scraps of death, while sitting on some dank downtown curb, in your dirty jeans.
You find yourself day dreaming about doing homework at the kitchen table. About helping your Mom with house work, about vacuuming your room. Taking your dog for a walk. Stupid shit you would argue about until now, because you were a selfish and entitled teenager. And now you’re not, now you’re desperate for something normal. Even if your home life, or in my case, group home life, was less than tolerable, even if you hated it so much that you felt forced to hide in your room listening to music and getting high, you still craved the ordinariness of it. The predictability. The fridge. The laundry. The bathroom. The hugs. Watching shitty movies on Sunday nights. The rules. Even the fighting. Because at least you were there. At least you were a part of something, instead of being a part of nothing. Wasting away in barren alleys. Sleeping in bus stop shelters. Maybe even flirting with the idea to trade sex for shelter, because it’s been over a week since you slept in a bed, and the thought of letting some random guy put his hands all over your body, isn’t sounding as dirty as it once did. Because you are dirty. You’re an animal.
We were closing in on one month. One month out in the corrupt world and living on the street. Time was irrelevant and the days would collide into each other, leaving us with a chaotic mess of memories, evil and trauma. We had been couch surfing with friends for the last few days, and had totally out stayed our welcome. It was understandable, but it left us with some pretty shitty options. Go to the soup kitchen. Stay awake all night, outside, in the city. Or, do the thing, that we had come to learn.
It would be one of the longest nights of my life.
Within twenty-four hours I would be stepping in blood. It would run through cracks in the sidewalk and out onto the street. It would be on my hands. Forever staining my fingers and my mind.
I was about to destroy a person…and I didn’t see it coming. Neither did he.
For the first time, I would label myself as evil. And I meant it.