“A smile to doom your darkening doorway?”
It wasn’t what once thought. It wasn’t quite “A penny for your thoughts?”, even though some wayward soul might think it. Wayward meaning insane, for one would have to be to unearth such a cheerful thought.
No. It was said with a somber tone. There was no smile beyond the fleeting and failing attempts to lengthen the barely upturned edges of the mouth. It was a futile attempt to cheer the one who said it in the hopes it would be contagious and spread. It wasn’t working. It wasn’t really expected to work. There wasn’t going to be a second attempt. It didn’t matter. It was just one of the many things overheard in the city. It only garnered extra attention because of how out of place it was, but then the world was rolling in misery. It would’ve been out of place everywhere else too.
All thoughts on that were suddenly cut off with the latest scream to permeate the snowy, but somehow still dingy streets of Madison, Wisconsin. It wasn’t as if the screams had ever really stopped. They were more than a nightly thing, though they were heard less during the day. They had become the town’s ambience, a serenade to death.
It seemed someone was always dying and someone was always suffering the youthing. It was par for the course and Ben knew it. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in town, as if that was saying much. It was the second, but he’d traveled more than most and all the cities of the world were the same when it came to the screaming.
But then that was one of the reasons he’d joined the seed hunters . . . to escape the screams. Beyond that, he was special. Wferium told him as much. He was no ancient. Far from it, he was only AA24, which like in most cases for someone so young also meant he was EA29, having been advanced by his society conscious mother. Age was not what made him special. No. He was a seed hunter.
It was a strange thing. This seemed to mean less when in a camp surrounded by them and once free it meant even less because no one who wasn’t one really gave a damn. It wasn’t common knowledge, but nor was it hidden. They just took a different path and those that cared either loved them or hated them for it. Though they should’ve loved him . . . he was saving the planet and the future of humatrankind, along with it. At least that’s what Wferium told him. It made him feel special so he stayed and did his part.
That was all over now. He’d been a part of Wferium’s seed hunters for just over four years and it all fell to shit in the space of a week. The ancient who he was so sure couldn’t die, did die. He was real damned sure of that. Still there were others and for a short time he’d convinced himself that the lifestyle he’d grown accustomed to and now loved could actually continue under Aryl. Yet she hadn’t returned. He was beginning to think she was dead. His abilities were just too damned weak to know for sure.
According to Sarafyn . . . god he hated that name. He nearly shit his pants every time he thought about that man, but according to THAT ancient, Aryl had delegated her authority to him. He never bothered to explain why as if a reason wasn’t necessary when backed by power, but then he’d managed to convince Ben. Just how many people had to die to prove it true? Apparently, just enough so everyone would obey without question. It turned out there were only two who could do that.
He wasn’t referring to himself and Trina. He didn’t really know what happened to her, but the ancient made it clear anyone who talked back the way she did wouldn’t live to tell about it. Ben felt a sudden twinge of guilt that he didn’t miss her. Then a much larger one when he remembered what she and the others had called Ben . . . traitor. They all should’ve stood up to such tyranny, but he didn’t. He couldn’t, but he wasn’t alone. There was one other person willing to obey the ancient and proven it. That was Kyle. Ben had become friends with him, or at least something more than neighbors. They shared a common bond through suffering.
Ben wondered over and over again just why he had to die? Before her end, Trina spelled it out for him . . . convenience, a means to an end. He’d been used to finish off others. That’s what scared him so damned much. Obedience wasn’t enough. It wasn’t any guarantee of anything. If the ancient could’ve made use of his death then he wouldn’t have hesitated to do just that. He was still breathing out of luck, he supposed. He was so utterly useless as to not be needed for anything. In other words, he was alive because Sarafyn had proved Wferium wrong . . . he was anything but special.
He was nobody. He was nothing. Maybe he didn’t even rate that high. He didn’t deserve to live and that’s exactly what allowed him to. It was the irony of all ironies. He’d once heard knowledge was power, but this knowledge didn’t make him stronger. He felt sick to his stomach. He stopped in the street and puked. It wasn’t an ideal place to do that, but then nowhere in the city was. It couldn’t be helped. It was coming whether he liked it or not. The only choice he had in the matter was where to direct it and those choices were severely limited by time.
So he turned his head a split second before as one does to divert a cough or a sneeze. He really shouldn’t have. Perhaps he would’ve known better had he been staring at anything other than the few feet of ground in front of him. Of course, this was more than just because he was feeling sick, depressed, guilty or terrified. He was feeling all of those things all at once, but this was a measure of safety he’d learned long ago when in a city . . . making eye contact was dangerous. His father had told him keeping your head up allowed potential child murderers to see and likely remember your face. Well, he wasn’t a child anymore, but the idea still applied.
Ben was simply trying to blend in and despite his misery he was doing a right fine job of it . . . until he puked all over someone’s shoes. Ben noticed the second before everything came up that they were already worn down, torn up, abused and ready to die, but his insides frosting them sealed the deal. Fortunately, their wearer thought the one who puked on them was sporting a fine replacement.
This realization came after a disgusted shock, a failed but sudden hop backwards and two or three straight minutes of endless swearing strung together like a rope. They were punctuated by the occasional unloving shove. Ben didn’t seem to notice much even though he fell into the nasty snow because of it. No. He was already suffering enough. A little more wouldn’t matter much. A part of him knew he’d fallen, but hadn’t really felt being pushed. In his condition he wondered if he would’ve noticed had he been stabbed instead. That idea led to the sudden fear he’d actually been gutted, knowing the pain would take a few seconds to kick in.
He fumbled to check, spreading the remnants of his own vomit all over his tattered coat. He found nothing, but then he knew it wouldn’t have been fatal. Only the stupid murdered without planning . . . unless startled, of course. Without a second thought to the swearing and threats being thrown his way he checked himself more thoroughly and more quickly. As if it even would’ve mattered. If he’d been stabbed, knowing about it or where the wound was wouldn’t stop the coming pain or even death, if that was his fate. None of that happened as he hadn’t been stabbed at all, just pushed, but hard.
What did happen was little better and Ben wondered whether or not death would’ve been preferable. The man had friends as did everyone in the city who wasn’t suicidal. Naturally his friends backed him up and hurled their own threats in defense of the one who’d been wronged, as if that were necessary. He really didn’t need the help.
The general idea was to hold Ben down and steal not only his shoes but everything else of value, but no one wanted to touch, much less smell Ben at the moment. They certainly didn’t want his now putrid coat, which wasn’t all that great to begin with, as he’d been wearing it off and on for over four years now. He’d even slept in it most nights seeing how a seed hunter’s camp was always outside in tents. Being a heavy coat, it still trumped what most of this gang wore for warmth. That was until Ben puked all over himself. That kind of depreciated its value.
Most everything else Ben wore was now in the same condition, including his pants, but somehow he’d missed his shoes, which weren’t shoes at all, but boots designed for walking through deep snow. These were in a word, valuable. This was soon discovered and he was liberated of them as quickly as possible. The gang would’ve cut him up some just for kicks, but no one wanted to stick around any longer. Dead or alive he would still stink, so they left him be.
Ben was wearing socks, two pairs in fact, but he hadn’t taken his boots off in so long that they’d been pushed off slowly with every weary step and now huddled, crumpled at the bottom of the boots that were no longer his. So now, in what must’ve been late January or early February, he was stranded inside the city with bare feet and no place to go. He was covered in his own vomit and still reeling from a series of battered emotions, as well as the long drawn out after effects of puking. He was struggling to breathe through nostrils clogged with rerouted vomit and heaving with every breath from his wide open mouth.
It wasn’t an ideal situation and though there were many people around not one came to his aid or likely even considered the possibility. The screams continued, as if they’d ever really stopped. It wasn’t turning out to be a very good night for Ben. Saved only by vomit, suicide was beginning to look like a damned fine alternative.
Of course, he’d seen a lot of classic movies, so queue the Good Samaritan, but no one came. That was after all only in the movies. Death seemed his only friend now, but death was a finicky thing. It needed help. Well, not really. He could just lie there and his feet would freeze and then maybe he’d die of hypothermia, but that would be exceedingly slow and painful. It would be more appropriate to say that quick, painless death needed help.
It took Ben nearly ten minutes to come up with anything feasible, but that wasn’t quite right. No. He was suffering from many disgusting and debilitating things at the moment and wasn’t exactly thinking straight. So he just laid there and likely would’ve continued to do so if his feet hadn’t begun to freeze. They needed warmth and after slowly propping himself up he noticed the only thing that would help. It was the same thing no one else would’ve touched, because apparently everyone else had limits. The discarded shoes covered in his own puke.
It took Ben a little while to convince himself, but his freezing feet made the final decision. After that, time seemed to speed up with the urgency of the situation. He rushed for the shoes and thought little to nothing of the slippery, chunky and now cold feel of them. This remained true even when he put them on and found that the mess had gotten inside. His only consolation being that they slipped right on, even though they were a size too small. As if fashionable, they sported holes aplenty and the cold bit right through, but they were still better than nothing. Not exactly a fair trade, but by far the best he was going to get.
Suicide was still on his mind. In fact, it took priority over all else. He decided the simplest way to accomplish this would be to jump from the top of a building. It could even be a one story so long as he leapt face first. His head would be the first thing to hit and should be plenty enough, though it’d be tough to suppress the urge to brace himself with his hands. As it happened, all that surrounded him were one to two story residential buildings. It was naturally the first thing he’d find on the outskirts of town and he would’ve known it well before now if he’d bothered to look up before all this shit happened. Yet if he’d looked up earlier he would’ve avoided puking on gangland shoes. There was nothing for that now, even though he cringed with every cold, squishy step.
Ben chose the nearest building . . . a two story. It seemed perfect. Most of these homes now housed people who’d come out to smoke while watching the latest shit going down, albeit from a safe distance. He didn’t doubt for a second, tonight that shit would be himself. It may as well be. It’s pretty much spot on how he felt. It seemed every single one of them cringed right along with him when he forced himself to put on those nasty shoes. The building right in front of him was empty of voyeurs, even from the windows. That could’ve been attributed to the smell, but more likely this was where a few of that gang lived and they’d all moved off out of sight.
Ben had no idea when they’d return, but right now he had an opportunity and he was damn well going to take it. He walked slowly, expecting to slip more from the puke than the ice. He didn’t bother with the doorbell, as it was an older building and still had one. The newer, richer ones now supported a preprogrammed hologram that materialized the moment anyone came within five feet of the door. It was so nice that technology found a new, personalized way to tell the world to fuck off. It even worked on false positives to where the quasi-you would find itself telling off a squirrel.
Ben only knew this because it matched the sort of neighborhood in which he’d been raised. His father was rich. Well, at least by normal standards. His father’s money paid for security, which was the primary reason little Ben survived childhood. Right now he wished he’d stayed there. He’d given it all up for the chance to explore the world, but the world didn’t really give a shit about his dreams and proved it nearly every step of the way.
Shortly thereafter Ben wanted to go home. He tried to call, but his cellular implant was malfunctioning from some hack trying to remove it for profit. His ears bled for a week. Any other type of antiquated phone cost money and he had none. Women his age were rare, so could buy a call in exchange for sex, but what could he do? Nothing.
So he hoofed it back home, constantly shocked he’d managed to survive the trip. What he found when he arrived shocked him even more . . . that stupid holo-greeting telling him to fuck off. He would’ve been offended and demoralized had that been a representation of his father, but it wasn’t. He’d no idea who it was, so he walked straight through the still bitching hologram to knock on the door. After a couple minutes and more knocking he was greeted by a sheargun and a “What the FUCK do you want?!”
It was afterwards he found out his father had died. He was murdered; just another casualty of modern society. Since his father was a self-made man from poverty, young Ben had no one else. Even his mother was gone; having done the “right” thing by sacrificing herself so baby Ben could be toddler Ben. He didn’t know about all that. Somehow he’d trade it all in just to have a mother back.
So from there he wandered, but not so much. It quickly became a priority to get out of the city. Death waited impatiently in the city. Somewhat miraculously, he made his escape and wandered the spaces in between. Eventually he stumbled across the seed hunters; or rather they stumbled across him as he slept. After a shock he still breathed, Wferium told him he was special and that was all there was to it . . . he was a fledgling seed hunter. Funny, the night before he’d never heard of such a thing.
Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.
Everything was fine for a while. He’d become part of the increasingly strange family. Then after four years the collective shit hit fan and now here he was, back in some god forsaken city looking to reunite with his long lost father. He hoped to that same fucked up god he wouldn’t take this puke with him into the afterlife or not even his own dad would take him back.
For whatever it was worth no holo-greeting appeared when he hit the doorbell. He half expected it to, because some were rigged that way. It was the cheap route for those who couldn’t afford motion sensors, but this was even cheaper. This was antiquated. No one came to the door. He stood there for five minutes making sure. Either no one was home or no one wanted to smell the walking pile of puke by opening the door. He couldn’t really blame them. So finally he checked the doorknob. It was locked and likely with a series of deadbolts for added security. It’s what he would’ve done. After all, even though this building was far older than he was it still sported bars on the windows. After a glance he noticed that all the rest did as well. Getting in this building or any other just wasn’t happening unless someone let him in and that wasn’t happening either.
After a few more demoralizing thoughts he realized he didn’t need to get inside. He wanted height to jump from and that meant the rooftop. He could simply climb. Of course there wasn’t anything simple about that. Such things had been already been taken into account. Most buildings were lined on top with any number of jury rigged barbed wire or something just as damaging. Some even had this secured to the outside walls, but most were wise to that. It was too low to the ground, which meant that it was too easy to tear down. They mostly stood higher up the walls. If any weren’t protected in such a way, they were from the outside by people with all manner of damaging weapons.
So Ben looked to his only recourse . . . trees, but many of these were also barbed with sharp little Christmas lights that somehow failed to light up. Sometimes they really were Christmas lights, but with every bulb broken in the simplest of deterrents . . . broken glass. Every tree that was near a building proudly boasted this form of protection. Not that there were many trees at all. Why booby trap a tree when they could just be cut down? After all, firewood was always a plus; win-win.
Ben knew this was more than just protection against break-ins. He was not the first person to want to end it all. Hell, everyone who saw him already knew that’s what he was trying to do. No abilities were necessary to discern this . . . just experience. After all, what outsider comes into the city alone and unprotected who isn’t looking for death? The simple fact was nobody wanted to clean up the god awful mess a jumper would inevitably make, so they did everything in their power to prevent the possibility. It was the smart play, or at least he would’ve thought so had he been one of them . . . the people that still wanted to live even if they had nothing to live for. Ben doubted any of these people knew what a dream was outside of sleep.
There were other ways to commit suicide. The main way was simply to enter the city. Others would take care of the rest for you, but not him. At least not now and certainly not like this. They’d find their youth somewhere else. Aside from the distinct possibility of DOE, no one wanted to suffer the youthing pains next to a reeking cesspool, even though that’s pretty much what most people in the city already lived in.
Ben was smart enough to know the city represented death . . . at least for him. He wouldn’t have headed here for any other reason, but part of him, terrified or not, wished Sarafyn had done the job. What else was there for him? He’d survive this long through the protection of the camp, but all that remained were memories. It passed its expiration date faster than he had. In fact, Sarafyn used him to help dismantle the place. He didn’t even know why.
First, he helped Cynthia and Jennifer and even Trina, freshly swayed, to empty everything out of every tent. It was a long arduous job even though nomads like them never took much with them. Yet they’d stayed here much longer than usual per Wferium’s orders, so more had accumulated. Many sleds already existed for carrying such things. It was the simplest, low-tech way to move from place to place. All of it was dragged well outside of camp. There everything was scavenged for anything useful. Ben didn’t know why that couldn’t have been done inside the tents. At least that would’ve gotten them all out of the biting wind. After all it was the kind that drove right through you after a time. It didn’t matter. Not even the ancients “girls” questioned his motives, so he certainly wasn’t about to.
When that was finally done, Sarafyn had him and still swayed Trina drag what were once his friends one by one to a single tent. Ben hoped this meant he’d be ordered to take Wferium down from the Queen Tree, but that didn’t happen. Throughout everything he’d done over the past four hours he was forced to see her hanging there. It didn’t do well for his conscious. Obviously Sarafyn didn’t care much about that, but why the fuck not?! Ancient or not, Wferium was his sister! How could anyone do such a thing to their own sister?
It was hard to control such thoughts but he knew he had to try. Sarafyn could easily read his mind, but part of him wanted him to. Maybe he would’ve killed him for it. Hell, he thought maybe he’d still kill him after the job was done. Why keep a pack mule with nothing left to pack? Instead he let him go. Why the fuck would he do that? Wasn’t he afraid he’d talk? Apparently not, as surely the ancient would’ve foreseen his primary goal . . . suicide. So, this was all a big joke? Would Sarafyn have killed him had he any aspiration to continue breathing? So, his life was little more than lose-lose?
Ben wanted to scream all these frustrations, but only the wind was listening. He doubted anyone would end him even to shut him up, so why waste the breath? Still, he knew nothing was that simple. Quick death was almost a myth. He’d witnessed what death meant when coming from Sarafyn. It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t simple. It wasn’t pretty. It certainly wasn’t painless. Ben could manage painless all by himself, so he kept his mouth shut. After he’d been let go, he made up his mind to let someone less sadistic do the job for him in Madison. That wasn’t working out so well for him now.
He had to do the job himself and jumping wasn’t going to work. So he considered other options. Of course, he could always find something sharp and slit his own wrists, but he already knew he wouldn’t do that. He had an aversion to pain. If he hadn’t, he would’ve taunted Sarafyn until he gave him some grisly, prolonged death.
For a moment he considered death insurance. He could let someone else kill him and get paid for it. Or at least arrange for someone else to have the money. There were some problems with that. First, he had no beneficiaries for the money to. Second, he didn’t know where to find such a place and no one was likely to help him. Third, if he did find out where they were, he’d probably get killed getting there. Fourth, if he did get there they’d be closed. It was the middle of the night. Lastly, even if he survived long enough for them to open, they’d turn him away. No one with any self-respect was about to let someone as disgusting as he was now inside their office . . . even if they traded in death.
So, that was out. Well, maybe he could hang himself. There were a few trees. None unprotected, but trees nonetheless. Yet then he had no rope. He could use some of that barbed wire, but no. That would cut into him and hurt. A wuss like him couldn’t have that. He didn’t know if it was good or bad that he could admit he was a wuss. It remained a mystery, even though he’d gotten to that point more than once in his short lifetime.
Well, there was only one other thing he could think of. He could throw himself in front of an oncoming vehicle. It would be messy, but quick and painless. It should work. Especially here in the residential section. The city workers protected against that sort of thing by blockading the highways and all other major roads. They could still be crossed but orderly and safely with bridges and overpasses that were completely enclosed.
It almost seemed like they cared. It almost seemed like they wanted to protect their people. Nothing could be further from the truth. The city just didn’t want to clean up the mess. After all, people committed suicide all the time now. If such things weren’t done the highways would be constantly backed up with mangled, rotting corpses. It was once a serious problem. So it became a city ordinance to pay for a new cleanup program similar to trash pickup or donations.
People now called in the dead for pick up. They liked to call it everyone’s “civic responsibility”. There were ads plastered everywhere trying to convince everyone that suicide was a waste and not to do it, once again not because they cared, but why waste the youth? Still, if they were determined the city wished them to do so as cleanly and neatly as possible . . . so it wouldn’t be too much of a bother for anyone else, but especially themselves. It was part of the city’s new “sensitivity” program.
Ben used to wonder what the city did with all the bodies. He supposed they were used as fertilizer or mulched into canned dog food. He knew better now. They simply recycled them into food for humatrans, seeing how birthing and youthing seriously stunted the number of animals available for consumption. Really, who could say with any certainty the delicious cut of steak in the market was actually from a cow? As they always say, “Death brings life.” Well, he supposed he’d soon find out . . . one way or another.
Even so, it wouldn’t be from an “accidental” hit and run. There wasn’t enough traffic around here. Most people in these neighborhoods couldn’t afford vehicles of any sort and no one who could frequented such places. Ben saw only two since he’d been here and even they were driving slow. Not so slow as to get carjacked or become a target, but slow enough to have plenty of response time in case someone like himself jumped out in front of them. It was as the city liked to call it “preventative and responsible” because no one wanted to clean up “someone else’s mess” . . . especially not the city even though they were paid to. They especially wanted to avoid youthing or possibly DOE, so responsible driving was a must.
This “responsibility“, of course, extended past suicide to murder, which had been a natural part of life for centuries now. Yet to do it responsibly, well, that was quite another story. Oftentimes it was kill or be killed. No one was going to stop and say, “Hey, we should be careful not to make a mess.” So the city took up the slack by creating murder free zones; not free from murder, but rather free to commit murder. It was here where people could be guaranteed no interference from city officials or the police. To a point it worked, but people still did whatever they wanted wherever they wanted. Why not? When death was on the line who gave a damn about laws? Still the city tried. They had to. They chose to believe civilization could still be civilized despite the radical change thrust upon them by the Atra.
Not that Ben had been here long enough to know all these things, but he’d been here once before with Wferium’s whole group of seed hunters and ads for “responsible death” were everywhere. Not here though. Sure, they’d likely been plastered on trees and such, but the residents must’ve taken them all down because they trashed their already wasted neighborhood.
There was both a fear and a hope in that fact. He’d been here before. There was a gangland war and the seed hunters had won. No one was fond of them here. Maybe someone would recognize him. Maybe they’d kill him for it. If so, it wouldn’t be quick or painless. How could it be, if he alone had to pay the price for the seed hunter’s victory? Even so, how was anyone to remember him, looking the way he did now? How fucked up was it that puking on himself should protect him? Of course, it was more than that. Who among this rabble knew Wferium was dead much less the whole of the camp? Surely, they’d fear retribution for killing any of the ancient’s followers. Hell, some surely thought this was a test . . . and they weren’t about to fail.
These thoughts did little other than allow the bitter cold to seep in, so he couldn’t stay here . . . meaning outside. His feet were literally starting to freeze around the vomit. There was less squish to every step. The frozen puke was starting to stick to his skin. He had to find warmth or die by frostbite. He wasn’t about to forget he was a wuss. He had to plan his death better than this, but there was nothing for him here. He moved off down the street in hope some reasonable shelter could be found. Of course, he knew well enough that such things could only be found from city owned buildings . . . probably no warmer than his tent was.
No resident would take him in. They’d sooner risk DOE by shooting him in the face, but that’d suit him just fine. No one wanted to prolong the visit, but neither did they want his putrid corpse lying on their doorstep. So naturally they’d first try to threaten him with the intention of herding him along to some other poor sap. If that didn’t work they’d fire a warning shot. If that didn’t work they might actually shoot him, but not fatally and not in the leg. They wanted him to be able to get away.
It was all iffy, though. What if they weren’t a very good shot? Would they still risk killing him when they didn’t even know how old he was? Who would do that? Of course, in the heat of the moment anything could happen. Sometimes people acted without thinking. Who was he kidding? Most of the time they did, but almost never when it came to death. No. That was serious business. As if to prove it, who was he to think so rationally? If he didn’t stop soon he might just talk himself out of dying and then if his luck held true he’d get killed. Whatever. It was killing him just trying to figure out how to die.
Ben thought these things while he walked, but his walk was becoming more of a limp with every step. Not that both feet weren’t reservoirs of pain, but he was favoring the parts that hurt less. He’d run if he thought he was able; maybe somehow work himself back to warmth. That was a hard thing though. He was also weak. He hadn’t eaten in a while. He hadn’t worried about eating since before he set out with Kyle to drag Wferium’s body back to camp. He kind of lost his appetite after that grisly business. It was sometime around there he’d convinced himself he wasn’t going fare much better against Sarafyn, so why bother eating? When that didn’t happen he just gave up on life altogether and began to seriously think about suicide. What was the point of eating after that? A last meal maybe? What exactly would be on the menu for that hallowed feast? The ancient hoarded the remaining food for him and new his cronies. He had nothing and no one was going to give him anything. Especially not when they knew he sought death.
So he was weak and getting weaker. He was cold and getting colder. His pain was getting worse. He smelled horrible as well as looked it. He was also tired. Fear kept sleep at bay perhaps more so than the cold could. Add a heaping helping of depression among other not so happy emotions and he’d a volatile cocktail chock full of death. So then . . . why couldn’t he die? He just had to stop thinking about all this crap. He had to focus. My god, he thought, how many different flavors of fucked was he? He had to wake the fuck up so he could die proper.
He looked back before turning the corner. No one was following him. As if it mattered. When he looked forward again he just saw more of the same. Houses were barred against him in every conceivable way from making a bloody mess on their shitty turf. Now he had a whole new host of people to stare him down. Nobody slept anymore. News travels fast, so some of these new people already knew about what he’d done, what he was trying to do and most of all what he smelled like. Or at least they could imagine. He figured none of them would come near him. He was right.
He was walking on the sidewalk looking for cars, trucks, anything that could run him over. There was nothing. Everyone was steering clear of him. Even those people who didn’t know he existed. He was so off limits he must be radioactive. So he kept on walking, letting stamina and adrenalin lead the way. If he couldn’t find warmth, he at least had to find a neighborhood that hadn’t been warned about him. He needed to find someone new and preferably stupid who would end him before they had a chance to smell him . . . fat chance of that happening.
He wandered from one fucked up neighborhood to the next. Only the first one could’ve seen him exit the tree line. Now he was just some dumbass piece of cannon fodder looking for death, right? Well, not if the word had already spread. How likely was it all these neighbors were friends? How likely was it they were all part of the same fucked up gang? Still, the word must’ve spread somehow. Everyone was leaving him alone. That wasn’t normal. Not at all. Even if no one wanted to kill him, he was still a juicy piece of fun, unless they all still smelled him, but the puke was ice cold now and the smell faded with it. His feet were going numb and part of him knew that was a bad thing even though he was grateful for the relief. However, wasn’t it only a bad thing if he wanted to live? Well, yes, but he didn’t want to die this way. Why not though? Going numb didn’t hurt all so much and it wasn’t like it could be avoided.
Walking became decidedly harder once he lost all feeling in his feet and the night was just getting colder. He turned the next corner and fell because of it. He reached out to brace his fall but couldn’t feel all of his fingers. He went down hard. Once he was down he decided he didn’t want to get up again. So he didn’t and closed his weary eyes.