Splashing. Wet. Warm. Eyes. Open. Wide.
I panic. Pant. Feeling alien liquid against my face.
"No! No!" I scream.
Despite the pavement shaped against my stiff bones, I leap to my feet, slapping at the fresh wet on my cold face.
Sniff my fingers.
Relax - it's piss not petrol ...
A crude laugh punctures the night air.
I count the jeering figures, brave against the dark.
My Health and Safety rules; more than one - I retreat.
Rounding my back, hoodie pulled over my now dripping beanie hat, I brace myself for the blows.
"Loser."
"Hobo," shouts another teen-something.
Drunk? Spaced out?
Looking for fun not violence at my expense - thank God.
I wait until they've moved off; listen as the taunts and guffaws fade like self-esteem.
"Dirty, little bastards," I mutter, scratching at my skin like a modern day Lady Macbeth.
But, at least, it wasn't petrol. I shudder, thinking back to that day in Western Park.
Old Joe.
Screaming. Writhing. Blackened.
Huddling in the shop doorway, I sink to the ground. I'm wide awake now, shivering in the bitter night air and from the cold that seeps through the layers of my filthy, wet clothes.
Now how will I sleep? It's so hard to fight the chill and the fear anyway. Even on a quiet night I wake as often as a guilty banker.
Distant wailing predicts the police. The clubs are still emptying.
I tremble and try to hide in my own skin.
What if more clubbers come by?
I search through my bulging, split carrier for my nicked bottle of Listerine.
Shake. Unscrew. Swig.
I shudder as I gulp down the last of the burning liquid. It's worth it. The tiny amount of alcohol might force sleep to steal me.
I look at my feet. Think how much my life has been ruled by them.
Once they walked through a world with hot water taps. A mattress. Cups of tea. Plates of buttered toast.
The ghost of my old life sears through my head like acid - taunting and seducing in equal measure as I sit and shiver.
Did I really have all that?
It's the people I hate. Whose daytime eyes slide past me like I'm invisible.
I look at my throbbing feet in their greying, fraying trainers.
They walked me away from that other life. From hands that hit. Seek where they should not touch. From Lies. Utter despair.
Pushing the memories away with another minty swig, I pull around me the only dream I dare now have. Of a place, a time, when I can take off my shoes. Let my feet run free. Feel the air on my toes.
It tempts like a Dutch window whore.
One step would be all it takes.
Swig. Close. Eyes. Tight.
Feet. Free.
Safe ...
Copyright © 2008 Rob Richardson. All Rights Reserved.