Lizzy “Yes, I would shake your hand but as you can see.” He tilts his head referring to his look alike that has her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Is she your sister?” It’s the dumbest question I could ask. Come on, they are practically identical, same green eyes, same blond hair, same complexion even their face is shaped a like except hers is much younger. But point made, dumb question. He doesn’t answer me, he does however take a step away from the door to allow me to step inside.
When I do, it is like I am taken back to the 1600’s. I feel like I am under dressed with my ripped jeans and DavidHarley sweat shirt I am wearing. Not to mention my old sneakers that has well passed seen its expiration date. I can’t throw them out, I should but my dad got it for me two years ago. And if he was alive I would’ve tossed them out but now he so not alive.
“Would you like something to drink? Or better yet let’s just go sit in the kitchen.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond as he walks effortlessly with the giggling little girl still attached to him down a long and wide wooden floored passage way. I rush behind him, my sling leather bag hitting my thigh as I do so. We round another corner going down a long corridor before we make a right and pass down the photo room filled with probably thousands of photos framed on the wall. We take a few steps down then turn left.
“This place is like me a maze.” The awe in my voice doesn’t go unnoticed by Dexter who chuckles and takes another right in front of me.
“It’s fun, Decky needs exercise. “ She giggles after she’s done talking and I don’t stop the big goofy grin on my face from making an appearance as we finally make it to the kitchen which is something from the movies, dark oak doors, silver fridges, dark oak counters with a tinge of white here and there, “Wow, this place is nice.”
Dexter slip his sister off his shoulder and she instantly runs to the freezer on the other end of the kitchen and pulls out a tub of ice cream.
Comments and suggestions can be sent to shanRk@zoho.com and email@example.com 😎 Happy Friday to everybody.
Listen , speak , learn, that is what I have done today. I listened to my stupid coach screaming in my ear as I did !y drills. I spoke when I needed to and I learned, I learned that I was actually sick and fucking tired of this asshole. He has had my ass since last week. Not sure what is up the guys ally. But when I got home today, I decided fuck it. It is Saturday evening. I should be out and today it is exactly what I am doing
The Delroys are hosting a dinner party tonight, and my dad was in no way going to make it with the important deal he has going on in Toronto tonight, so it ended up on me.
I step in front of the long length cupboard mirror. My bow tie hanging loosely around my shirt collar. Buttoning up my shirt I look at the scratches Dainy left Thursday evening. It never ceases to amaze me how wild and crazy she gets sometime.
In fact the other day she left me speechless when she walked into my bedroom with nothing but a red tiny piece of material covering her snatch. Her hair was curled to the side, and she had this deep red lipstick painting her lips.
Just thinking about now has me going hard. And there is nothing I can do about it right now, as my girlfriend decided to spend her time with Kylie. Which is weird because from my knowledge Kylie hasn’t been taking visitors.
But what do I know. Recently things with Rainy is going great. I never looked at myself as a one woman man until I ended up in Dainy’s bed.
Then I was thinking how I messed up, but now as I tie my bow and grab my black tux jacket , I can honestly say thank fuck I did go steady with Dainy, if I didn’t I am sure Sabastian would have her all wrapped up in him by now.
I see the way he looks at my girl, I haven’t said a thing about yet. So far he hasn’t made any plays and I can’t fault the guy for wanting her back, I mean look at her. But Dainy is mine and I am glad she isn’t coming with me tonight. Tonight is the time Sebastian Delroy and I settle somethings.
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To all of you…
Its been a while since I wrote. I could give you a bunch of reasons but like always I opt for the truth. I have went through some stuff, still going, looking for that pavement I will choose to rest on.
Thing is I had this heaviness wrapping my soul. I had no words, my emotions were misted, I needed to live a little , to find my place out of my mind. So I let go. I stepped out of my bubble for a bit. These weeks I laughed harder, I cried more but still I couldn’t write. There was something holding me back. I kept pushing it, saying Im going to write and I did but it wasn’t my words so I deleted it.
Today I sat alone by myself and I closed my eyes and for the first time since my reality rushed in on me, I thought. When I started I couldn’t stop and it had me asking myself a mundane question. Do I accept me?
I have crossed paths with many people. I have travelled the world, seen poverty at its worst. Riches of the highest levels. But none of that answers the question.
So I searched harder, I thought of my life. I thought of my choices. I remembered moments that I had long forgotten. Times as a kid when I didn’t care why the sky was blue or adults kept checking the time. I remembered thinking I was an alien passing by on this earth. Which we are. We are all passing by. From the day we came into this world our death, our end was inevitable. No man was born to live forever.
I spent five hours just thinking. No music, no TV, nothing. I thought about my life searching for an answer to my question.
We have all done things we aren’t proud of, sinner’s in our own right. Maybe those sins werent always freely dooming. Some of us surround ourselves with the regret of it all, whether by choice or not, whilst other’s choose to see the lessons learned.
There are even some who smile and choose to just leave the past in the past and move on. But my question today is Do you accept yourself?
Do you accept that you aren’t perfect but the perfect whole of yourself? Or you will never learn your lesson and repeat past mistakes? Do you accept that you will never be good at something even though you put a hundred hours into doing it? Or you good at something and never even practiced? Do you accept you? For all your faults, for all your talents? Do you accept you?
Some of you would jump and say yes. Others will say no. Thing is we can’t accept ourselves without knowing who we are accepting.
You are an individual. You look at things from a different perspective. You have your own thoughts, your own opinions.
I myself haven’t really accepted ME before now. I was so used of taking what I got and been grateful that I had something that I lost myself along the way.
But no more, today as I write to you I will say I accept myself. I accept my faults, I accept my talents. I accept that my happiness is in my hands, my choices are my own. Nobody has the power to take that from me but my own self.
To do that I had to dig deep. I had to live, love, lose it all. I had to realise that we are all different.
I want you to look within yourself , I want you to ask yourself do you accept you.
The wind is colder today. It’s making me wish I had something warmer than the thin hoody I nipped off some kid two years ago. I shiver in the small space between the bins, hearing the raucous coming from the building I’m leaning on.
From today it’s officially known as a club called, Lazer’s.
The people scream and cheer. Their loud laughs echo in my soul.
I’ve never known a day of being normal or having a hot plate of food to eat. I don’t even know what it feels like to have a bath. The streets of Washington has been my home since the day I was born.
I think I stayed in the hospital a few times, I’m not sure, I was too young to remember.
It’s safe to say my mother loved me a little too much, because she wouldn’t give me up. She rather I be born without a blanket to keep me warm than abort me. Many times she explained it to me, she’d say that I was a love child, and my daddy would one day find us and take us to his home. But he never came, and my mother didn’t seem too beat up about it either. As the years went on by, I learnt to survive on these streets, I even learnt to smile.
Somehow, by sheer luck my mother managed to get me in a school when I turned seven.
I was the dirty kid.
The one with lice in her hair.
The pity child who was always taking the lunch or scraps other kids left on the back wall during break.
By the end of the first year they called me Street girl. No one played with me, but I never let their words bother me.
I kept my eyes on my school work. My mother told me that if I focused on my grades and finished school I’d be able to get a job when I got older. We wouldn’t have to stay on these streets.
Shelters weren’t an option, they were the worst place we could go. We once ended up in the one on 16th Street.
We had nothing to eat for two days, we were starving and I was getting weak. There was no other choice.
My mother tried everything to get a buck but no one was feeling generous, not even some scraps to eat.
It was during my summer break.
She never let me beg though. She always stashed me in some corner behind a bin, or in an alley. Sometimes on weekends I’d sit on the pavement watching the cars go by.
But the day we went to the shelter was a bad day. My mothers grip on my hand was so tight, it pained. She rushed us straight to the queue for the free sandwiches. I think I was around eight.
They tried taking me away from my mother that day, by locking me in some storage room. I was screaming and crying.
I bit the lady that pulled me away.
Somehow my mother managed to get me out of there and we kicked down, and didn’t stop until we were at the river.
It was the first and last time we ever sort out a shelter.
That was also the first time she warned me about the system. I remember her words, “You listen to me kid. Those houses they’ll put you in are far worse than living on the street. You can never get caught, you hear me.”
I stared at her crazy green eyes, and knotted black hair, then I nodded. My mother’s face was hollow, and her wrist so fragile, sometimes I feared she might just break and shatter into thousands of pieces. But she was tough and kept me safe.
She said bad things happened to the kids in the system. Many people thought she was crazy. Mad. But I believed her.
My mother always spoke to me about her life when she was younger, and the dangers she faced after entering a foster home.
At the ripe age of ten, I knew the horrors I’d face if I was taken away from her.
The rape and the abuse was what I dreaded the most.
But I was born unlucky, because my mother got sick.
She was diagnosed with stage three of lung cancer and didn’t last two months after we found out.
I was just twelve when she died.
There was no parting touchy words she passed on to me.
She just looked at me from the hospital bed.
And carried on looking at me even after the monitors blared through the room, even after the nurse lifted me up off the ground and carried a struggling me out of the room.
I could’ve maybe told myself that she smiled a little but I couldn’t bring it to the forefront of my mind to have such foolish thoughts.
It was the same day, November 8th, that the system swallowed me in. I had no choice. Forced into it, and for two weeks like any other twelve year old faced with shit luck I stuck it out for a peanut butter sandwich in the morning and stale crackers at night.
But when your foster dad rapes you, you get the fuck out of dodge.
I did. But only after I took a tin opener to his throat.
I left the other kids there and took my chances alone on the streets. I was bleeding and violated. My private places ached, but I didn’t seek a hospital or anyone’s help.
Instead I made my way to the train station that night and cleaned myself up in the public bathroom that smelled like shit and puke. But to me, it was just another day of surviving, just another day in this fucked up-ness we called life.
The tissue paper I used to wipe the evidence away as the tear leaked silently down my cheek, was the one thing I made sure of to never let happen again.
Nine years have past since then. Not much has changed in my life. No magical happenings, or great jobs.
I didn’t even finish school.
I’m still living on Washington streets. Still begging for scraps, because no one wants to hire a homeless twenty one year old with no I.D. I tried, many, many times.
I even tried stripping, apparently you need a ‘G E D’ to do that too.
Only now the cold is making it fucking hard to even breathe. But nothing is making me come out of my spot in-between the dumpsters. This is like a fucking luxury hotel in my world. I could get a good three or four hours sleep here.
The owner of Lazer’s saw me around a few times, he said he wanted to talk to me tonight when the place closed. I only agreed because he offered me a hot meal, something I’ve never had before. And I’m sure I can take him, if he tries anything. I haven’t lived this long being nice.
To survive years on the streets, one needs rules. The first one, never trust anyone, you do that you’d have no one to identify your body. You’d be lucky it even made it to the morgue. Or worse, you could end up sold as a fucking prostitute for small pocket change, there’s no way out of that one. Those pimps get you hooked on any crap they feel like sticking up your veins and it isn’t always drugs.
Second, if you’re a female, always stink, even if u manage to get to the river or a tap, you never clean up too nicely. Smelling bad, keeps fuckers away.
Three, don’t think someone is your friend, there’s no fucking friends in this place, everybody wants something. I made that mistake a few times and almost got shot by a street gang last year, cos this girl Tally told them I stole her drugs, the same drugs she shot up her veins.
And the fourth, and this is an important one, never steal. Many of us do, well most. I did it one time, just once, to a kid two years ago. I was fucking cold and hadn’t eaten for days. I saw him stash a ten in the front pocket of his hoody and thought fuck it. I got the hoody, but only after he beat the fuck out of me. It turned out he was only short and was actually seventeen.
After he beat me, he took pity on me and gave me a hundred, it was sick, but I took the cash and it kept me fed for months. Since then, I hadn’t had any problems. No run ins with trouble, well at least not anything worth adding to my nightmares.
You’d think I went through hell to survive on the street. Truth is, us homeless folks are all trying to survive. We spend more time fighting against nature and saving our strength until our next meal than we do fighting each other.
The back door next to the dumpster’s I’m resting between bangs open, “I’m fine Zero,” a sweet female voice says, “Den and Spade is with us.” The heels click so close to me. I still.
“I didn’t want you to worry, I wanted to come.” There’s a pause, no footsteps, “you know I will,” Her voice softens.
I roll my eyes, because it’s obviously a guy. I liked a boy once, blue eyes, red Curly hair. He worked by the supermarket down town, he was cute, around my age now. I think I was fourteen or fifteen.
I use to beg three blocks away from the supermarket and instead of saving for a loaf of bread, the moment I had enough cash I went to the store to buy a lollipop. This happened on average, twice a day. I’d wash my face and tidy myself up before I got there and I’d smile, I hated smiling, but he was cute.
The first few times I went, he scowled, looking at me like I’m gonna steal, as if. About a week later, a sign was posted on the display window, ‘no homeless folks allowed’.
I didn’t think it meant me, I made sure to clean up before I entered the place. I even broke my always stink rule for that time. A few steps into the supermarket later, he came storming up to me with a security guy trailing behind him screaming, “Didn’t you see the sign. No beggars, get your dirty ass outa here.” People stopped and watched but nobody said a thing. I never liked a boy again, in fact when I see them I look the other way except one time. One other time I liked a man.
This girl is obviously lucky, I bet she’s dating some guy in one of those fancy suits. I can’t see her face, but just hearing her voice, I can tell she’s a softy that wouldn’t survive in my world.
She’s still talking to the person on the phone, but I can’t hear much anymore because she’s moved further away from me. I shift into my corner, my body still covered by a cardboard box I found in the dumpster. It’s a few minutes later that I hear her heels drumming closer to the club, closer to me. She’s going really fast now by the way her heels are clicking on the tar. Maybe she’s upset. I listen quietly, I ain’t got nothing better to do, it’s not like I have a tv or radio.
What’s that sound. It’s other people’s feet, heavy footsteps. My heart begins to race as I recognize those heavy footfalls, it’s a man, shit, not man, men.
Scream bitch, scream for help,but she doesn’t.
She’s going to get herself in some deep trouble now. There’s a struggle, I can hear a muttered curse and the sound of her shoe dropping, “I’m a Satan Sniper you fuckwad, let me go.” Her screech sounds like she’s struggling. They must have her against a wall, or in a strong hold, shit.
I don’t see anything, only hear one of the men reply, “I don’t give a fuck. After I’m done with you bitch my friend here is gonna fuck you until you bleed and then I’m gonna slit your fucking throat.”
I listen to the swearing, and her weak wails, shit, is she going to get raped, should I help. I wanna scream for her but what if they have friends around the alley just keeping watch, damn it to hell.
With a pounding heart I remove the cardboard box off my body. Once I’m sure they can’t hear me, I crawl slowly out of my nest. They don’t notice me, but I ain’t surprised by this. I peep around the dumpster.
The one guy is African American, bald, meaty looking. He’s holding her neck in a chokehold with a gun pointed to her head. The blonde guy is trying to get her jeans down, and struggling. Her make up is running down her cheeks, red locks sticking up in all directions, God, she looks so tiny. I creep closer, sure not to draw attention to myself.
Blondy finally gets pissed when her jeans don’t come down and slits it open with a knife, wrong move. Her spiked heel of her right boot gets him first in the nuts, then in the face, at the same time she does some twisty move and gets out of the other guys neck hold. They make a quick recover and both start hitting her.
Blondy slaps her across the face as the other guy upper cuts her. She screams and bends down, weaving.
Fuck, I know that if I don’t help they gonna kill her. I go closer, still keeping to the dark. Her elbow makes contact with the throat of the man holding the gun, cutting off his oxygen. The girl got moves. His hands instinctively go for his neck causing him to drop the weapon a few feet away from me.
I don’t think, just act. Running out of the shadows I sprint to the gun, pick it up, click the safety off, and pull the trigger. First bullet to the African Americans head, then to the blonde fuckers heart, both kill shots, both drop dead. How I managed to do that, is another story I don’t wanna remember, my nightmare, the reason why I still beg on the streets for scraps, why I never finished school, why I can’t even get a fucking ID. And why the world would always just know me as Beggar.