16 September 2012
"Sticks and bones may break may bones but words may never hurt me." reads a poster for some abuse hotline. The poster is a liar. Words do hurt. I wander the chilly autumn streets endlessly,scavenging for spare pieces of food in bins. I'm starving. A group of teenage boys pass by, spitting and throwing chip wrappers at me. I squat down and eat the few remaining chips left in the packet. It doesn't satisfy my hynger but its good enough for now. I pass by a boutique, observing young girls, around late teens/early 20's (my age) strutting off with various shopping bags in their arms. Their heels 'clip clop' their way down the high street and turn left into yet another designer boutique. I remember when I used to be like them. Wiggling my backside this way and that, smirking at homeless people, looking them up and down as if they were a piece of dog crap - something to avoid and hold your nose up to. Now its the other way round. I carry on people-watching and dream of what could of been. I could of been rich, gone off to university to study medicine, then marry and have 3 children and live in a massive mansion. The perfect life. But no.
I keep on walking. The day is coming to an end. Better find a place to squat for the night. I start to settle when two policemen stride up towards me like two sharks preparing to attack a vulnerable peice of prey. "You Rita Jones?" "Why? What do you want? Who are you?" I ask starting to panic. He holds up some id. "Seargent Williams now Answer the question." "Yeah. I am....why?" "Where were you on March 18 2012?" "I am not sure...Why are you asking me these questions?" "Rita Jones, I am placing you under arrest under suspicion of the murder of Connor Smith."
No.
Dreams #2 • Opuss № I