People looked down on me, like I was dangerous, unclean, not to be trusted. I didn't blame them, though – I'd do the same if I was in their position. I just wanted to shout out. To ask for help. To talk to someone, to tell them my story. To make them understand that I was a victim of circumstance, not of my choices. But they had their own problems, their own lives, and I knew that I didn't mean a thing to them. They wouldn't remember me, I wouldn't remember them. We were each no more than stains on the book that was the other's life.
I don't know how long I was on the streets. The days and nights all blurred as one, a hopeless pile of wasted time. Life became nothing more than a futile struggle for survival, and I found myself, in my desperation, questioning everything I'd once thought I'd known. I
learnt to ignore the growing pangs of hunger, the way the wind would drain me of all feeling, snatching the very last, crumpled bits of optimism from deep within me. Soon not even the sun felt warm, and I hardly noticed the difference between night and day. I didn't feel anymore. I didn't care.
YOU ARE READING
The Other Side
General FictionThis is just a short little something I wrote on a whim. I've wanted to write about homelessness for a while now, seeing as it is such a widespread and taboo issue, and it was a theme that I thought would be easy for many people to relate to. I've c...
