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Alone I Walk | A story of courage
I got the piece of mail I have dreaded receiving. I couldn't afford to pay my debts, let alone taxes. The winter taxes had come. I had to tell them, but that wouldn't matter to the collectors. They had to be paid.
About a year ago, I lost my wife to a devastating battle to an unknown illness. She fought too long and hard for her life, and God had decided it was time for her to fly home. I was, and am, an avid drinker. Coaxing my body with alcohol allowed me to feel as if she were still alive. But soon after the despair returns, and I cannot bear the pain. So again I sip.
And there I was now, just skin and bone, not a new pair of clothes on my back, scraps of food at the table, or a warm house at night. And I had to pay the taxes. I was dead. My house was gone. I was nothing.
That's when I gave up hope. I concluded it was time to walk about the lonely streets, not a space to claim my own. Every painful step brung back overloads of despair, the look of agony on my wife's pale skin, her floral hospital gown spattered in her own urine and drool, her feeding system beeping from no remaing food in the bag, her heart monitor calibrating her every beat, the carelessness of the doctors, the... Abuse...
Those thoughts chilled me through the little protection I had shielding me from the brisk winter. I was hoping a nice, big truck would come blazing out in front of me to end my life.
When I was in my lowest, out of a dark corner emerged a creature, a dank moan flowed off of its tongue. It was that of a dog, one that appeared to be injured.
On one of the grafiti walls, faint, but visible, a sign read, "Lost dog, $200.00 reward if found." The image on the poster was definetly him. I was determined to find the owner, for the sake of his poor life, but as well as mine.
A luminescent neon sign hung out above a fairly large brick building. It was only about 2 blocks from where I found the mutt. It was the correct adress; 162 Gladsdow lane. Judging by the dead, unkempt weeds along it's sidewalk, the foul suggestions written on the stones, and the posters of nude women and beer in the windows, it had to be a night club. I limped toward the establishment, and the canine obviously ran up to the structure with a scent of recognition on his nose.
My hands and lips were cracked, my stomach growled, my skin crawled, my clothes smelled, my body was covered in infestation, my-
I confirmed I would get the pulp beat out of me by a husky man, tattoos up his arm, a bandana around his head, inside. I craved beer. I wanted to bathe in it. Get clean. Live by a fire in my old home, large trophies on the mantle. Have food in the fridge. A made bed. My sexy wife walking into the room, her blonde, wavy hair running down her shoulders, her crystal eyes locked directly on mine, her small, tender hands removing her silky pajamas to reveal curvy body, and then walking towards me, my adrenaline racing, crawling in the bed with me, placing my hand around her head, staying close...
The memories were all I owned. My plan was to get the damn dog to its owner, and spend the reward on a nice case of beer, and some cigarettes, pills, marijuana, cocain, and heroine from the illegal street vendors.
I pushed the heavy door open, the warmth already making contact with my skin. I pulled the next set of doors, the handles the shape of guns, the warmth imediatly rising.
The room was filled with restaurant booths, a huge stage on the back wall, waitresses with very little clothes on, the men reaching out their hairy arms to take a grab at their exposed legs.
It smelled like all sorts of food; Pizza. Burgers. Hotdogs. Spicey wings. Soft drinks. Everything. If I had a dime to spend, it would be on something to fill my empty stomach. The dog ran to a man in a ripped up jean jacket. He jumped up, and his front paws landed on his shoulders. $200.00 away, I thought.
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About a year ago, I lost my wife to a devastating battle to an unknown illness. She fought too long and hard for her life, and God had decided it was time for her to fly home. I was, and am, an avid drinker. Coaxing my body with alcohol allowed me to feel as if she were still alive. But soon after the despair returns, and I cannot bear the pain. So again I sip.
And there I was now, just skin and bone, not a new pair of clothes on my back, scraps of food at the table, or a warm house at night. And I had to pay the taxes. I was dead. My house was gone. I was nothing.
That's when I gave up hope. I concluded it was time to walk about the lonely streets, not a space to claim my own. Every painful step brung back overloads of despair, the look of agony on my wife's pale skin, her floral hospital gown spattered in her own urine and drool, her feeding system beeping from no remaing food in the bag, her heart monitor calibrating her every beat, the carelessness of the doctors, the... Abuse...
Those thoughts chilled me through the little protection I had shielding me from the brisk winter. I was hoping a nice, big truck would come blazing out in front of me to end my life.
When I was in my lowest, out of a dark corner emerged a creature, a dank moan flowed off of its tongue. It was that of a dog, one that appeared to be injured.
On one of the grafiti walls, faint, but visible, a sign read, "Lost dog, $200.00 reward if found." The image on the poster was definetly him. I was determined to find the owner, for the sake of his poor life, but as well as mine.
A luminescent neon sign hung out above a fairly large brick building. It was only about 2 blocks from where I found the mutt. It was the correct adress; 162 Gladsdow lane. Judging by the dead, unkempt weeds along it's sidewalk, the foul suggestions written on the stones, and the posters of nude women and beer in the windows, it had to be a night club. I limped toward the establishment, and the canine obviously ran up to the structure with a scent of recognition on his nose.
My hands and lips were cracked, my stomach growled, my skin crawled, my clothes smelled, my body was covered in infestation, my-
I confirmed I would get the pulp beat out of me by a husky man, tattoos up his arm, a bandana around his head, inside. I craved beer. I wanted to bathe in it. Get clean. Live by a fire in my old home, large trophies on the mantle. Have food in the fridge. A made bed. My sexy wife walking into the room, her blonde, wavy hair running down her shoulders, her crystal eyes locked directly on mine, her small, tender hands removing her silky pajamas to reveal curvy body, and then walking towards me, my adrenaline racing, crawling in the bed with me, placing my hand around her head, staying close...
The memories were all I owned. My plan was to get the damn dog to its owner, and spend the reward on a nice case of beer, and some cigarettes, pills, marijuana, cocain, and heroine from the illegal street vendors.
I pushed the heavy door open, the warmth already making contact with my skin. I pulled the next set of doors, the handles the shape of guns, the warmth imediatly rising.
The room was filled with restaurant booths, a huge stage on the back wall, waitresses with very little clothes on, the men reaching out their hairy arms to take a grab at their exposed legs.
It smelled like all sorts of food; Pizza. Burgers. Hotdogs. Spicey wings. Soft drinks. Everything. If I had a dime to spend, it would be on something to fill my empty stomach. The dog ran to a man in a ripped up jean jacket. He jumped up, and his front paws landed on his shoulders. $200.00 away, I thought.
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