Circus Supernatural

Chapter 2

I awoke to the sound of a screech of tyres and the hiss of suspension. Heavy boots hit the ground near where I lay, and the familiar whistling of the refuge men made me groan.

"Rise and shine, losers. Clean up on Junkie Alley!" a guffaw of laughter rang out as commotion crescendoed outside of my tent.

I sighed and shimmied out of my sleeping bag, hastily rolling it up, and tying it with some frayed rope. I grabbed my backpack and stuffed what little I had into it. Torch, 2 battered books, the silver foil with yesterday's leftover sandwich Sally had forced on me, and half a bottle of water. I checked the hidden compartment in the front pocket and felt for the familiar shape of my prized possession, relief filling me as I felt it hard edges with my fingertips.

Unzipping the door, I step out into the morning sunshine. The onslaught of the stink of garbage, the cacophony of chaotic noise of frantic movements and the bright light is overwhelming. The pain in my face, which had caused severe swelling, and now I could barely open my mouth or see out of my left eye.

The whole of tent city was up and desperately trying to gather their thin belongings and get the hell out of here..

I collapsed my tent quickly, stuffing it in my bag. Experience dictated that if I didn't do this particular task quickly, the unforgiving refuge men would swiftly have it deposited in the back of their truck in a blink.

Every day, they came at the crack of dawn and cleared out tent city. The city's policy was to restrict the homeless. Clear them away from here, so that when the well-to-do city slickers commuted in for work, and families undertook the school runs, there would be no sign of the dirty underbelly of citizens that brought down the real estate value. They used the excuse that we were drug addicts, prostitutes, and violent. The reality was the tent city residents with those labels were actually in the minority, and the majority were simply veterans, runaways and people with mental health problems that the system had let down. But city hall officials didn't want to take the blame for their own shortcomings, so they labelled us - Junkie Town.

The refuge guys were bullies. Plain and simple. They thrived on this every morning, Like bloodhounds. I saw it in their crazed grins and maniacal laughter and the way they showed no regard for anyone or anything in the tent city.

Shouts to my right alerted me to a ruckus between an old war vet and the worst of all the refuge men - Mike. They each had a grip of the vet's tent, playing a very one sided game of tug of war. The old man - Clark, I think his name was, although I was not sure if that was his first or second name - was pleading for Mike to let it go. But he wouldn't and before Mike had time to plead his case further, his tent was yanked from his hands, thrown into the garbage truck and crushed before his eyes.

"No fucking respect." I muttered.

It was then that I realised that the only tent left standing was Sally's. At the same moment I noted this, so did Mike. The glee in his eyes was evident, as he strode towards it.

Panic rose in me. This was all that was left of Sally. There would be no one to claim her things...if she had any. I didn't want anything of hers, but dammit, it was the principle of the thing. I couldn't see her life just thrown into the back of a truck with rotting food and people's garbage.

I had paused a moment too long. Just as I made for the tent, I found Mike standing in my way. Grinning from ear to ear, as he looked me up and down and licked his lips.

"Well, well. What do we have here? What the fuck happened to your face? You piss off your pimp?" he laughed so hard spit came out of his revolting mouth and hit me in the face. I gagged and wiped my face with the sleeve of my filthy jacket, which made me suck in a breath from the pain of the contact.