excuse my grammatical errors.
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A look of pity is cast down by the stranger's eyes, forehead creasing into little slits, nose wrinkled. Always having been on the receiving end of this somber facade, I've now memorized the sappy eyes that make each lip curve, and the number of lines etched within each soul’s forehead as I glumly hold up my withering card board of a sign. Heck, I could probably be a psychologist reading people’s actions by now, working late hours, making good money.
If only I had finished out high school.
If only I hadn’t ran away from home.
If only my leg hadn’t been permanently fractured in the process.
If only.
My windbreaker tatters in the wind, an awful stench seeping through its slick blue material. My white sneakers are slathered in dirt, rugged and torn from years of trekking the city streets. They’re so ancient that its canvas is thin and worn out, a millimeter of fabric between bare flesh and cement.
But now isn’t the time for self pitying, no time to wallow in my sorrow. I stalk off to the brick building, the red illuminating “Homeless Shelter” lights boring into deep within my soul. I’d rather be anywhere but here—coming to a place like this is like a flashing light bulb above your head, notifying all those around you that your pride has fallen to a deafening amount of zero. But with only one actual-functioning leg and grimy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in months, it’s not like I have a choice.
As I near the entrance of the shelter, I sight an old elderly couple, quickly recognizing them to be homeless, much like myself.
They’re chattering amongst themselves, but loud enough for me to listen in on the conversation.
“Did you hear that the shelter might just be closin’ down? I heard from a little bird that the economy’s gettin’ so bad that there ain’t enough money to keep this place alive.”
My breath catches in my throat and I swear my eyes start to water as this shocking news is unveiled.
“It’s too bad that some people couldn’t enjoy it while it lasts.”
The elderly man enunciates the ‘some’, glancing a look towards me as if it’s my fault that this place is crumbling down like a buttered croissant.
“Yeah, and you know that little Miss Suzy with the knee-high stockings and the purple make-up? Shoot, she worked so hard to keep this place a goin’. That’s just too bad that it was all useless hours of labor.”
Now they’re both glaring at me with cold stone eyes, making it less-than-obvious to the public that they’re upset with me.
I scramble away before causing any more trouble, hands pulling the medal handles of the door open. An oval shaped line has been formed inside the interior of the building, the aroma of potato soup wafting through my nostrils. I receive a welcoming wave and an enthusiastic “Hey Chad!” from April, the head chef and runner of the homeless shelter. I politely nod my head in reply, her head shaking as she snorts out a couple waves of laughter. It’s like this every time: she tries her best to get me to loosen up and to quote “stop acting like a stuck-up brat” while I fail to please her by responding with a grim facial expression. In my peripheral vision, I spot Suzy, in all her knee-high stocking and purple make-up glory. Her blue eyes meet my green ones, and almost immediately my heart feverishly starts to beat ten times faster. She’s carrying a plate of chocolate chip cookies, handing them out to those nearing the end of their meal. She then stalks toward me as I gulp, my eyes about to pop out of my sockets. It’s no secret that I have a crush towards this woman. I mean, both being in out mid-thirties, it’s not really that big of a surprise. She’s the only one who gets me—the only one who can see beyond my icy exterior, the only soul who could read my mind and love me for who I truly am. She finally reaches me, and I clear my throat.
“Is it true? I mean, about this place coming down?”
Her eyes dart at everywhere but me, her violet eye shadow spinning in circles. Clasping my hands in hers, she solemnly replies, “Yes Chad. I’m afraid you’re absolutely correct.”
A tear creeps its way down my cheek, and I hastily wipe it off on my sleeve.
“Is it… Is it because of me?”
A sad look is fixed in within her pupils, and I can tell what her reply will be without her saying a word.
“I’ll do anything Suzy! I know I haven’t been coming here often, but I’ve been meaning to see you for the last couple of months! You know that. You have to understand Suzy, it’s just so hard for me to walk in here because you know how it makes me feel! It makes me feel worthless to step foot in this shelter!”
I’m practically screeching now, much to Suzy’s embarrassment.
“You know what Chad? It is your fault! You never ever came around to visit me because of your ‘stupid pride’ and you know what, I don’t think you ever really cared about me in the first place!”
I can hear her anger seething through her clenched teeth, and I can’t help but act the same.
I’m furious at the statement she’s made, but deep down in my heart, I know that she’s right.
“How DARE you say such a thing to me Suzy? This is unacceptable! Just because you’re not homeless like me means you have the right to talk to me like that! Oh wait—your outfits are pretty much ‘homeless attire’, so I guess I was wrong about you.”
I don’t know what compels me to say such distasteful language to my one and only lover. Maybe it’s just my instinct: pushing those close to my heart away, protecting it from further wounds and heartbreak. Nonetheless, my words taste bitter, foreign even.
She gasps at my horrid comment and instantly jolts out of sight, her white apron sashaying in the wind as tears stream down her alabaster cheeks.
Then it hits me—I really am mean.
And Suzy is crying because of me.
But it’s too late to run for her now; she was always miles ahead of me in the race of Life in the first place.
I don’t deserve her, and I never will.
I push through the exit, blocking out all the noise around me, still processing what has just happened.
And regretting every word I said.
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