i've never once slept underneath a bridge
Unfortunate
An abrupt awakening again destroyed this only peace the lonely survivor of the unfortunate could find. Unsure in which direction his gaze would be appropriate his head tilted from left, to right. Unsure of what he continued to live on for, what meaning his survival entailed, he looked first left, then right. The prey his mind hunted failed to show even the faintest footprints or leave the slightest trace of its existence in either of these possible coordinal directions the eyes can survey. The noise had come and the noise had past. It happens often. He contemplated attempting a journey back to the world of depressing dreams which always seemed to end in the same place: A raging hell spawn 16 wheel mechanical bull tossing him back into reality; and the overpass roars a threatening boom throughout the underside of whatever high way bridge made for the night’s home.
Without realizing, he was on his feet walking in the direction most fitting for his late night-morning stroll. As usual he roamed with no particular goal was in sight. The streetlamps forced an uncomfortable feeling of self consciousness upon the man. He continued to walk though the spotlights, each coating him in a dull orange glow. Each one a stage, and he was sure each one with an audience no less hostile than the last. Convincing himself he had done no wrong he continued to walk down the endless dotted--line of misty orange light heading for a darkness beyond the horizon.
With no sidewalk and eerie trees looming up against the sides of the street his feet tread alongside the curb keeping him barely on the civilized side of the border between nature and civilization. The woods that ran along the street could have possibly been a private place for such a nameless man to lie down, but the cold is not something to be underestimated. Morning dew has killed far greater. The man had, at one time, owned a name of his own. He had a name which drew attention, a reputation seldom unknown. His life was a most mighty accumulation of anger and angst in his younger days. Unlike the empty shell he resides in now, feeding off the scraps of a ninety nine cent store dumpster he had once lived a life of luxury. Everything to excess could have been a nice motto had he been interested in such things. Unfortunately for him, philosophical thought concerning the value of the self never seemed all that important until he had missed the point.
As he strayed on farther down the road he pondered on where this path of his would take him. Passing by familiar scenes from his youth he couldn’t help but think back on where exactly it was when his life began to lead him to this long and lonesome road. He walked by a small liquor store and chanced a gaze at himself walking in the front door. He had a bounce in his step that his old joints worn down from endless nights sleeping under bridges in negative ten degree temperatures had long since forgotten. He remembered the routine, cigarettes, gas, and the biggest, most ridiculous suicide soft-drink he could conjure up through one of his more creative outlets: the fill station fountain drink. He walked on contemplating how unpleasant the thoughts strutting the street of his mind were, but like most things affecting his life they were not within his realm of control.
He heard the squeal of the kid’s tires scorching the pavement as he continued to wander. Continued to wander and continued to wonder. Continued questioning how a kid with everything could lose so much. In truth all he had left was his life, and this was protected from freezing to death only by a multitude of shirts, sweatshirts, jeans, and layers upon layers of socks. Keeping the feet warm is absolutely vital to those attempting to survive the severe cold of these frozen city streets. This life was the last remaining shred of pride the man had. No matter what possessions he lost or materials were taken from him the life was his. A vague sense of reassurance came over him as he thought to himself that he could always take his own life. His death was the one thing in this cold world which he knew he could control.
Before the smirk could vanish, the rough middle age looking twenty eight year old face he was laying on the ground in a puddle of some cold liquid. After a moment sharp pain erupted in the back of his head from the cause of his collapse. His mind was completely freed of thought. Lying there on the dark pavement, with the side of his face in a puddle of some mysterious liquid, he forgot all about the unfortunates of his lifetime. Unsure of what had happened he lay there without a care for the cause of his collapse. As his hands began to feel numb he started to recognize the severity of the situation. Lifting his head a couple inches out of the sticky water he spotted a pair of small red lights multiplying and circling each other as they faded off into the distance. He knew he had to get up. But he just couldn’t convince himself to do it. The cold was beginning to subside, and he was enjoying this euphoric lack of thought that seemed to coincide with forgetting to breathe. His head dropped back into the puddle slightly heavier than he had intended. He gasped for air breathing in as deeply as he could and coughed out some of the disgusting liquid that he had inhaled. His mind began to fade as he drifted closer and closer to sleep remembering the taste. He had never understood how the drink had gotten its name, and he gasped his last words while the streetlights observed him falling asleep, “fucking suicide,” and the man found peace that no semi or irritable police officer would ever be able to disrupt.