Opus

10. Foul Play

I blink up into red bloodshot eyes. The knife scraps my throat as I swallow once, then again. This is my fault. If I die, I'll have only myself to blame. Only fifteen minutes left in the sixth set. Fifteen minutes! Never let your guard down. Kendrick's words ring in the back of my mind. The warning comes a wee bit late.

My heels hit the wet cobblestones. Even in the playground it rains, go figure. My stride is assured, decisive. Who cares about the time, the wind, the cold, I march on rapidly but without rush. I know where I'm heading; do not bug me.

I'm hungry.

Once I'm home, I'll have a bath, with bubbles at that, and a glass of wine. The dream life! I'm delusional. I'm so damn exhausted that, as soon as I'll cross the front door, my mattress will be the sole temptation that I'll give into. Again. The only unknown, will my bed be empty? I should have laid it out before leaving. I frown at my unintentional quip. Damn, I truly need rest.

My thoughts do not alter the rhythm of my steps. Two more blocks, an alley, a dead end, and I'm done. I turn my collar up and straighten my shoulders. I am set on my goal, move aside, my assertive stance announces to the few fools that, like me, face the dark underground.

I turn the corner, leaving behind the dim halo of the lamppost. "Why won't someone change the bulb, I can't see anything," my grandmother kept asking in her final days. Until the end, the stubborn old fool refused to consult an optometrist. I miss her.

I fix my eyes on the little star glittering in the distance. My escape. I've hung a lamp by the broken planks of my gate. Between the crumbling buildings and vermin-infested slums, that light is a flagship for the outside, my exit to the world. Each of my steps brings me closer to my refuge.

I'm hungry.

I'm cold.

I'm hum, fatigued? Fatigued.

I'm hungry.

I'm cold.

I'm fatigued.

I'm wishing? Wanting? Aye, I'm wanting.

I'm hungry.

I'm cold.

I'm fatigued.

I'm wanting.

I'm thirsty.

I like to play hopscotch. Yes, I know that I'm past my year. I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm fatigued. I'm wanting. I'm thirsty. The once-microscopic dot marking my world can now be considered tiny. I walk down the alley, never straying from the middle of the path, far from the surrounding ruins, stones, and trash. Five more minutes of walk will turn the teeny star into a small circle of yellow light. I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm fatigued. I'm wanting. I'm thirsty. I'm hungry. I'm cold. I'm fatigued. I'm want−

"Your bag!"

I can barely see the specter that has materialized in front of me, obliterating my star.

The cavernous voice commands once more, "Your bag, asshole!"

Even if I believed in ghosts, my shadowy adversary's stink, a mix of perspiration, urine, and fright, is too human to scare me.

In reaction, my arms have tightened over my messenger bag. I've worked, ran for most of the last ten hours for that bag's content. I'm not ready to hand it over to the first thug that comes along. "No." Mercifully, hours of silence and exhaustion have thickened my voice. The playground's inky-black night and my outfit do the rest.

Besides, the good-for-nothing spook is too taken aback by my response to react when I send him to the ground thanks to a leg kick-shoulder slam (practiced time and time again, thank you, Kendrick). I step over him. My bright asterisk regains its spot in the distance. My heels resume their metronome staccato.