The Streets

This was a writing exercise in which I was only allowed to use a first person pronoun twice. I managed a minimum of three times. It's not great work but it's something I guess.

“Is that your shoe?”

“Woman, is that your shoe?” a voice barked.

“Look at this dirty b***h, she must think that this is her house. Just look at her, would you. What a sight for sore eyes.”

I slowly opened my eyes, bright, white light scorching them as daylight flooded in. A few passers by had stopped to ask questions, to pry. This was their entertainment. People like me, we remind them that despite what was going on in their lives, there was always someone worse off. It made them feel good. Told them that however they may have fucked up, they had everything to be thankful for, because the world, these streets especially, would always be home to even bigger f**k-ups.

Burnt out f**s, an un-hooked earing, a ripped ear-lobe. An alcohol drenched skirt, missing knickers and some bite marks. An unclipped bra. A stray shoe. Everything that was wrong with the morning after the night before. Everything that had come undone in this life, scattered, laid bare for all to see. Privacy is and has never been an option for a long time. When the streets are your home, your refuge, when the stars and the night sky are the only ones who wonder how you got home last night, whether you’re safe, secure, sound, you have little regard for anything personal. There is no such thing as personal space. Boundaries are blurred into non-existence.

What’s wrong with these people, the ones who stare and taunt, is that they think that they can harm you. They think that their words can spark and ignite a feeling of regret.

Last night was one of the better nights. It had all happened so quickly, that there really hadn’t been any time to consider consequences. The sheer dosage of drugs, and of alcohol meant that last night’s sleep was as comfortable as was possible, given the situation and given the environment. After stumbling through deserted streets, way into the early hours of the morning, he pulled up in a black Audi. He knew the drill. He checked all around for witnesses, for police, for any one at all and when he was certain that the coast was clear, he found a conspicuous spot and flashed his lights. Four times he had flashed his lights. Stumbling and swaying, I made my way over to the car. He was always patient. He was always adamant that good things came to those who waited.

The window slid down and out came a brown bag.

“Take it,” he said, and tossed it down onto the ground.

Again,  after giving the area the once over and self-confirming that all was clear, he disappeared behind the tinted glass and drove off into the night.

Despite knowing what the package held, I fumbled, recklessly, impatiently, tearing the crumpled brown paper, soggy in places.

First came a sandwich. Within minutes it was gone. Water, a piece of fruit, some clean underwear.  Some love.

For different people, love has its different meanings. For the school-girl, it is the feeling she has bestowed upon the one boy that acknowledges her. The one who let’s her know that he knows that she is there. For mother it is the transferring all of her energies into her creations. It is giving them life beyond her own.

For people like us, love is hope. It is not attributed to a single being or a single thing. It’s attributed to the unknown. It is attributed to that which keeps us going, at times when it feels like we have nothing.

Author's Note

I focused more on the exercise requirements than the content :/