Dumpsters and Donuts

A short story in series. A story of a young homeless addict struggling with the death of his mother and the addiction that keeps him chained to the streets. This will be a weekly post, I hope.

Dumpsters and Donuts

A Short Story

By David L. Mock

Part I

No Door for Reality to Knock On

 

The rain beat out a slow military cadence, on the beer box, that was now on my head. The echo of the rain, banged into my conscientiousness, like a hammer on an anvil. A slow plodding death march, leading me back into reality.

 Where was I? I lifted the box slowly, afraid of what awaited me on the other side. The rain was cool and refreshing on my face, bringing me closer to reality. As my eyes adjusted to the dark surroundings, I realized I was wedged behind a trash dumpster. The smell of decay and urine assaulted my senses. The cold steel of the dumpster and the rough concrete of the building, gave this place a tomb-like feeling, but somehow, gave me an odd feeling of comfort, this place felt safe.

 There were more than enough beer bottles strewn around my body, to justify the way my head was feeling. Wet newspaper clung randomly to my body, giving me the appearance of a poorly concealed murder victim. The thick, sticky, fog of cocaine, beer, and whiskey was slowly lifting, like a medical examiners sheet sliding away from a corpses face. Wow! I really did it this time. I struggled to lift myself up, clutching for handholds in the wet, inky darkness. As I finally stood upright, my head spun, making the darkness swirl around me. The swirling seem to last a life time. Nausea overtook me. My stomach had nothing left to purge, which the front of my shirt gave testament to. I dislodged myself from the safety of my hiding place, and stumbled into the alley, the night wrapping around me like a cool wet blanket.

 My name is Thad, short for Thaddeus. I am 19, I am homeless and an addict. Thaddeus Benjamin Walker was bestowed upon me by my Mother, Lisa Anne Walker, or just Lolly. My mother believed my name, to be a powerful name. “Powerful names belong to powerful men”, she would say. If only my mother could see me now.

 I was raised by a single mother who was a “functioning” addict, which is somewhat of a oxymoron. My mother worked two jobs, every day and supplied all of my needs. She was always kind and loving. She  always encouraged me to pursue my passions. I have yet to find them. My mother was addicted to heroin. She died last year of an overdose. That is when I became homeless.

 

Author's Note

This work is ongoing and subject to the details of my process. I am a new writer. I am also working full time on a book. Details later. All input has value to me.