You should move back home, they say. Surely there’s someone you can call, they say. As if age has anything to do with anything. I’m eighteen so I must have two parents and be getting ready for college?
What if my parents died when I was five, and because I had no family willing to take me, I became a ward of the state? What if I’m out here because the job I’m working full time doesn’t pay me enough to make rent this month if I want to eat? What if I’m trying to help feed an ill friend who can only work so much, because she’s dying? But ‘they’ are more worried about what they think I should be doing, so I get scolded as they drop thirty cents in my cup. I take it because it’s my penance.
* * *
I watch her take people’s money all day. Freeloaders, free spirits, hippies, millennials; they’re all bad, the lot of them. No one else will do anything about it, cops drive right past beggars on the corner, so here I am. I’ll wait until she packs it in for the day. Surely she’ll turn down an alley or quiet neighborhood street, maybe tuck into a long apartment hallway. All I need is five seconds with no eyes, and she’s mine.
Copyright WB Welch – All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.