part0081

Looking over my shoulder, I watch Liam’s side rise and fall. Tracing my finger along each curve of a letter, a deep sigh escapes me. My eyes travel to the city once more, the cool breeze occasionally kissing my cheeks from the open window. The windows are mostly blacked out in the building across the way, reminding me that most of the city sleeps when my mind is thinking about anything but.

The dilapidated buildings surrounding me have become a protective barrier for my little corner of the world. My apartment is a small efficiency. The bedroom is also the living room, and the open kitchen can occupy one person at a time. The concrete walls don cracks here and there, and cobwebs have collected in some of the corners. My things fit in perfectly – skulls, some real, some not – animal skeletons, and other oddities litter my shelves. My burgundy bedding matches the curtains, and black rugs help cover the concrete floor. I don’t have a TV, but I do have an old record player that keeps me entertained. An easel stands in the corner beside the large bay window where I sit, and my abstract paintings line the walls, some hung, others sitting on the floor, waiting for their place on the wall. My guitars, all gifts from Liam, are my most prized possessions, propped on their stands beneath the spotlights by the kitchen. Above my bed, a large poster of Kurt Cobain with many other musicians and bands that have inspired me surrounding him.

I hear him rustling on the bed, and I close my journal before tiptoeing over to him. Lifting the sheet, I crawl in, backing up against Liam – my spine aligned with his as a tear rolls over my cheek. I wish he’d turn around and hold me like he used to, but time, and circumstance, changes people. He stopped getting too close when he realized that he already lost me. Not to somebody else, but to my mind.

I sniffle, and I feel him stiffen behind me. “What is it?” He murmurs, but I don’t respond. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that he drops it.

He grips my arm, causing me to flinch as he forcefully rolls me onto my back. I open my eyes, the tears streaming over my cheeks as I stare up at him. His eyes search mine, dancing from one to the other as I hold my fists to my chest.

“What is your problem?” He growls, his fingers digging into my arm as his hot breath blankets my face. When I don’t respond, he stands, grabbing his pants before pulling them over his hips. His dress shirt follows suit, and he fumbles with the buttons as he backs towards the door, shaking his head. “You need to pull it together. I can’t keep doing this.”

Then, he’s gone, and I stare blankly at the door that he left cracked for a time. He didn’t even care to lock it. His promises to keep me safe are dying right along with my sanity. The betrayal prickles my skin while the beat of my heart thrums in my ears. I don’t have any more tears to cry. It seems they’ve dried up right along with my belief of what could be.

Damned crow follows me, I swear. I can’t help but remember the guy in the cemetery every time I see it. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but really, it’s irrelevant. I can’t sleep. I’m stuck between awake and asleep - the place where the crazies go to seek peace between the points of reality. Everyone moves about as I sit on the metal bench, waiting on the 9 o’clock train. My tire blew out, and I’ve got a weird modeling job at 10 PM across the city. It’s for some fetish photographer who needs pictures of feet.

Basically, no funny business is what the ad stated. It pays $50, and the first shoot is a trial run, so if it goes good, more money in my pocket to model my feet. I’ll take it.

I watch the train on the opposite track, going in the opposite direction of my destination. I get lost in the tracers the steel and lights leave in front of me.

Exhaling, my shoulders slump as I recall mine and Liam’s last encounter. I haven’t heard from him since, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything in me screams that it’s my fault. That I somehow asked for what he did, and continues to do, to me. I should say no… I should push him away, yet my heart screams for him to stay. My mind knows the truth – that he’s using me. That he’s been using me for years.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll get desperate and call him again. I always do. Either a date will go wrong, or I’ll fall into a deep depression – again .

“Got any change to spare?” A raspy voice asks from beside me. My eyes flit to the source, and I see a scraggly gentleman beside me - a half-burnt cigarette hanging from his cracked lips as his grubby hands cling to a bottle of cheap whiskey dangling between his legs.

I smile, not bothering to clutch my bag any closer to my chest. He’s not a thief. He’s a homeless man. “I’ll give you $20 if you tell me a story.”

His eyes gloss over as they fixate on the train in front of him. “’Fraid I don’t have many stories to tell.”

Chuckling, I cup my hot chocolate-to-go in my gloved hands, appreciating the warmth on my cold fingers. “Everyone has at least one story.”

He smiles, and I watch the wrinkles around his eyes stretch towards his droopy cheeks. “Guess I’ve got a couple, but nobody ever cares to listen.”

My eyes travel towards my train as it rolls to a stop. “Got any plans tonight?”

“Nope. Same ol’, same ol’.”

“Alright,” I say, patting his torn jean cladded leg. “C’mon.”

“So, what ever happened to David?” I ask before taking a bite of my hotdog. Earl, the homeless man, already finished the two I bought him.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping as we continue our trek to the weird photographer’s house. “No idea. He was a great friend. Never did know if he made it back, or not. I never stopped wondering, though.”

Interestingly, Earl is a veteran. He graduated high school at the age of seventeen and joined the Navy the very next morning. David was lost at sea, and Earl’s eyes get distant at the mention of his name. I can tell they had a bond like no other, but I’m sure that is inevitable when death is looking you in the eye and you have a flag to serve; your comrades and letters from home the only things keeping you sane.

His team was assigned to lead in the first wave on Omaha Beach, and were to stay a thousand yards away from the beach for each successive wave to follow them. They had to wear special clothing and armbands to detect the poison gas that the German’s possessed.

“In order to get to the landing crafts below, we had to climb down cargo nets that hung from the battleship’s deck. He went first, and I had a feeling deep in my gut that something was wrong. He was a scrawny kid, and wore these big, coke-can glasses. They made his frightened eyes look even bigger when that wave caught him. Took him under, and alls I could do was watch. I didn’t have a chance to try and grab him. Once he went under, I never saw him again.” He sighs, his eyes wandering to some store window housing mannequins wearing the latest Fall fashions.

“When those bombs are dropping, and your adrenalin is pumping, you don’t feel pain like you would if the person you cared about was gunned down on some street, right next to you. You don’t have time to hurt, so I guess the healing process never really sets in. The hurt just stays in that same place, deep in your gut. You go on feeling like you’ve been punched in the stomach most days. Other days, you just try and stay numb. I never got into the drugs, but my devil lives in a bottle. I’ll say that much.”

I nod, my eyes fixating on the cracks in the sidewalk. I’m sure to step on each one. “If you could go back, would you still have enlisted?”

“Hell yes!” He claims, not missing a beat. “I learned a lot about myself on that ship. Even now, when the tips of my fingers feel like they’d freeze clean off, I still wouldn’t change a thing… except for David. I woulda tried a little harder to reach down there and catch him before the ocean did. But I was young and, I can’t lie, scared to death. The hardships you face in life are your best teachers. Even mistakes, they can teach you something valuable, too.”

Trials and tribulations - futile for some that have faced many throughout their life, and integral for those that have yet to grow. Sometimes you’ve got to get kicked down repeatedly before life humbles you. Earl is the perfect example of humility. He fought for his country, only to be ignored by its civilians. He fought a war that took his friend, and I’m sure the stress didn’t help his already ill wife. He gave up some “things” to become “nothing,” because he lost “everything.” Yet, his soulful stories speak volumes. His soul took a beating, but it’s still there in his hazel eyes. Battered spirits are always so quiet. That’s how I knew he’d have a story that would not only inspire me, but would also make me question my own circumstances.

Those are the most powerful stories of all.

Other than some awkward glances between me, Mr. Craigslist, and Earl, it didn’t go too bad, and I am fifty dollars richer after letting some stranger snap pictures of my feet.

“Here we are,” I say, taking a seat on the bench. I’m exhausted, and it’s already past 1 AM. This Friday night is typical as bargoers stand around us, many of them drunk, waiting on their train home. The same one I’m taking.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out the fifty bucks that I just earned, handing it to Earl.

He waves his hands in front of him. “No, no, no! That’s too much.”

I push the fifty-dollar bill into his palm before enclosing it with his dirty fingers. “Your story did more for me than you know. You need it more than me, besides…” I shrug, tucking my hands into my pockets, “I could use the company again for more of these odd jobs.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you ought to be careful out here, kid. You might think you’ve got it figured out, but truth is, you won’t until you’re old like me – your face sagging down in wrinkles as you look back. Time will change you. That’s life, I guess. Don’t take a clock for granted, and hang on to those precious seconds that serve to change you. Something tells me you’ll be alright, though.”