Someone's Someone

Someone's Someone - Chapter Seven

Danny...

I hate the weekends. To be fair, I can't actually say I like any day of the week, but I especially dislike the weekends. It's a time when all the average Joe's and all the nine to fivers drink themselves into a boozy oblivion and then turn into brawling and abusive bastards or screechy and cat-fighting bitches. When I first found myself in Bristol, I used to sleep rough right in the town centre, but quickly realised I was dangerously out of my depth. I never felt safe there, so have gradually made my way farther and farther away from the centre of Bristol. I now tend to shift between Old Market, St Jude and St Philips. I feel a little safer in those areas. But anywhere I lay my head, often has its risks. Keeping myself to myself, helps. Most of the homeless people I have encountered have so many problems of their own, that it drags me down to their depressive depths to be in their company. So I prefer to stay alone. It's only when I manage to get a bed for the night at one of the shelters, or I am needing a care package from one of the homeless charities, that I share the same space with other homeless people. I just prefer being alone. I'm still getting my head around how the hell I have ended up where I am. The anger and the isolation that I continuously feel, only feels worse when I share my time with others who have found themselves homeless on account of either tenancy, mental health, alcohol, family or drug issues. Some can end up living rough because of only one or two of those issues, or maybe even all of them. Every homeless person has their own story, and none of those stories are happy ones, let me tell you. Some like to stick together in groups, but I choose to stick with myself.

I only want to worry about myself.

I only have enough pride, for myself.

Everything I once had, is now gone. And I hate myself for it all being gone. It was never my plan for this to happen. It was never my choice to end up living somewhere on the streets of Bristol. But ultimately, it's entirely all my fault for why I have ended up here.

Me.

The failure that is me.

So now, I often function on the edge of my feelings. I function in isolation and with distrust. Living on the streets, it makes you paranoid. The paranoia can engulf you. You begin to feel nothing, because you feel like nothing within society. You don't trust the people who walk past you on the pavements, and you don't trust the people who are sleeping somewhere on the streets nearby. I have been shouted at and taunted by those who probably have a nice house and a nice car. Those same people, have thought it okay, to kick, spit, punch or slap me. Then on the other side of the coin, I've had homeless people get territorial and confrontational with me. Some have even stolen food and toiletries from me. So yeah, that paranoia engulfs you alright.

That's why I was wary when Henna first approached me.

It's not often I get spoken to like a person. I don't often get treated with genuine kindness. Sure, you get the odd passerby who thinks that by chucking a few coins in my direction, or placing a bit of food or drink in front of me, is somehow their wholesome good deed for the day. But no one has actually got down to eye level with me and actually talked to me like I was a worthy human being. It would be nice if people would take the time to really look at my face, then ask what I would like to have if they still want to buy me something.

It's just a courteous thing to do, isn't it? But I've never been at the receiving end of such courtesy or genuine kindness. So sadly, the paranoia took over and I was rather rude to Henna when she offered to take me to the café. I was sceptical and defensive of her kind and honest intentions. I was rude and I was wrong.

I was wrong for thinking that she was just another passerby.

I was wrong for treating her with distrust and suspicion.

Because Henna is genuine. I can just tell that she is. I can still remember the kindness and the warmth radiating in her tawny coloured eyes whenever she looked at me. I also remember her sweet stubbornness and her admirable reluctance to leave me; all of which are things that now make me smile whenever I think of them.

"What you smiling at, huh?" Some stupid drunkard has stopped by my feet. I find that by ignoring the intoxicated twats, they tend to quickly move on. So I lower my head and say nothing. "Tell me! What's so fucking funny?" He kicks my boots, demanding a reaction from me. "Think you can laugh at me, do ya...do ya?" He kicks harder, determined to get me to answer him. "You're nothing but scum, you know that? Just a homeless bum who wants to get off his lazy fucking ass and find a fucking job!" I can hear his feet shuffling, clearly struggling to stand. "So, come on! Why were you laughing at me?"

"Mike! We're going this way! Come on!" To my right, I can hear this other guy calling the dickhead in front of me. He's obviously been momentarily separated from his friends.

"I'm just gonna teach this homeless shit some manners." He slurs loudly back to his friend, trying to kick me again but drunkenly misses. "No one is laughing at me." He mumbles.

His friend is rushing over, keen to get his mate back under control. "We're off to the club now, buddy...come on!"

But Mike isn't done yet. "No! This piece of scum laughed at me, so I'm just gonna sort him out." More scuffles of his feet can be heard.

"Mike, we're going." His friend is getting firm with him. "Let's go!"

One final time, the very drunk Mike kicks my boots. "Lazy asshole." Is his parting insult.

His much more sober friend just mumbles under his breath. "Sorry, mate." Then manages to pull Mike the Twat away from me.

Yeah, I really do hate the weekends.