Every time, over and over again.It grows louder and more immanent present, letting it's piercing reality hid your face. First a mild slab. Aghast. Starting to pound away, taking the indignities as reality. Exploding in your brain, anger erupting.
I know, painful, isn't it? Try being me, you starting to get it, YOU FAGGOT! I know what you are.
Staff, already on the spot. They know me, it took them four years getting me of the street on a mattress in the shelter-lounge, pissing and shitting myself every night, if they don't wake me up in time to take a dump.
"Behave yourself," she says, looking around, seeing a client balding his fists, ready to pop one on my face.
"Out you go. Come back when you do know how to behave." She hands me the crutches.
"Arghr, You faggot," I grunt, swinging my left arm at the world in despair.
Seventeen minutes and thirty-six seconds later I managed to stagger my way to the reception-counter. They give me a schizophrenia pill. "Fuck, FUCK YOU," I shriek, swinging my left arm, right hand clinging the counter firmly.
The crutches fall. Staff helps me too the sidewalk. I thud down. The newbie hands me a paper plate with todays lunch: a blob of beans, baked potatoes, a bun; all submerged in swamp of gravy.
"FUck YOu," flipping the dish swiftly, smashing it onto the pavement. Indignation hits her face, leaving a shamed blush marking her cheeks.
Staff rescue the newbie: "He lost his wife and kids in a car-crash, he was a teacher, has been drinking since, we had to drag him of the streets, it's not you, okay, you'll get used to it.
"Yeah, or quit, most staff does," I think. "Can't handle real life, can you, you faggots."
I wonder off. Leaving the welfare crutches in the bush nearby the shelter. Taking the bus to hastings, selling off my four golden nugget-pills. Then to Davie street, panhandling. Taxi back to the shelter, retrieving the crutches, emptying my mickey. Drifting onto my lounge mattress, fading out the day.
FUCK YOU, Youuu, Faggot...
No comments:
Post a Comment