Rubbish

I dragged myself out of the dumpster I called home. My clothes, ragged and torn, hummed with a garbagey smell that clung to me like an unwanted girlfriend, my back sticky with grease and mould. A bed of cardboard boxes that slowly rotted and plastic bags that covered my weak flesh from the cold rain were my only possessions, other than a single photograph of my happier past that I had folded and unfolded countless times, a photograph that filled me with warm, painful pangs of nostalgia.

The money I had earned the previous day from sitting on the unforgiving pavement, my head bowed, collecting the pennies of the strangers that acknowledged me, lay in the pit of my pocket. This routine had trapped me for endless days - days that meant nothing to me, days where the only emotions were shame and regret, days I had to survive – I was going to buy some vodka. It was my coping mechanism. These last few years I had been in a tunnel with no light. Alcohol was the only thing that stifled suicidal thoughts.

I took a hefty swig from the bottle and counted my remaining money. Enough left for a Big Mac. Holding back tears, I took another gulp and lay down in my bed. Rubbish covered me on all sides. I knew this was my home – I was a piece of rubbish too. Human rubbish. When it – life, that is – when it all changed, I was in Hell, but now I was still alive, but only just.

A passer-by must’ve flicked a cigarette butt in here. Picking it up, I began to smoke the few remaining drags, choking on the taste of burning cork and suppressing vomit with another load of vodka. I should get off the streets. Of course, I’d rather spend the money it’d cost to go to the Salvation Army to numb the pain a little bit more. I winced. Mental pain. It was torture. I sometimes wish I’d get alcohol poisoning. If I died, it’d all be over, and if I survived, at least I’d be in a warm hospital in a free comfy bed. Perhaps I’d get off the booze, some day, but how would I survive? The only things I looked forwards to any more were drink, fag ends, and that Big Mac.

I lived off the pity of strangers. I used to think I’d have too much pride to beg, to root through bins for food scraps, but, once dignity had gone, pride left too. There’s no point in pride when you smell like a municipal bin. Some of the tramps sit on the steps outside the car park, drinking Special Brew together, laughing and joking and flirting, but I couldn’t do that. Sometimes it feels like I’m so full of misery, it’s like a tonne weight on my back, and I can hardly move. I just lie in torpor and try to forget that I’m in this bitter world; I try to go into that old photograph, pressing it against my eye and trying to push my mind into it. I keep it folded up in my left breast pocket, next to my heart. I don’t know what I’d do without it.

I rolled over to stare at a crushed beer can lying on top of a pitch-black bin bag. Rubbish. I belong here, I told myself.