Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
The decision to devour or savor is a difficult one.
Logic and starvation push for the former. I should shove as much as I can in my mouth, ditch the box, and be on my way before someone less kind and less understanding catches me where I obviously don’t belong; however, hope has me anxious to appreciate the flavors.
The unexpected freshness.
The eyebrow raising amount left in this box that makes me wonder if Pizza Woman ate more than two pieces.
Another gust of wind shoots a chill up my spine prompting me to split the difference of the two options. I continue moaning in content over the slice dangling from my lips while securing the remaining portions in my backpack. After ditching the box in the recycle bin, I hastily stroll away towards the manicured walking trail that’s just on the other side of Pizza Woman’s back fence. More bone-chilling air brutally whips around me, and the noticeable drop in temperature provokes a sharp sting to rip through my right leg causing my slightly noticeable limp to be painfully more apparent.
Honestly, most of the time I completely forget it’s even there. The shit only seems to bother me when it gets too cold out or when the memories make a surprise appearance to strangle me alive. Hurts like a motherfucker then. Makes me wish I could just remove the whole damn thing. Remove…me. The world would be better off if I did.
Dragging my shivering frame along faster is done at the same time I slip my hands back into the pockets of the army green trench coat someone tossed out right after Christmas.
I assume his wife got him a new one. This was left in the box, but it didn’t match the picture. Grabbed the box, too. Made for an alright place to store food. Well, it did until someone in Rose Patch ratted my ass out to the cops, and I was forced to move without my belongings that weren’t on me. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, and I know it won’t be the last considering where I choose to collect supplies from. Knowing how people operate, especially in these types of areas, is the primary reason I keep everything I absolutely need in my backpack. I’m always prepared. To move. To flee. To start over. You know it’s funny, people think the only battlefield worth talking about in this world is the one we fight with assault rifles over bullshit politics, false ideologies, and greed. Trust me. The one you face when every person you encounter is just as desperate to live another day as you, you see the real war we should be fighting. The real soldiers. The battles being ignored day in and day out. Just because I make the active choice to stay out of the trenches by living off the grid near nicer neighborhoods doesn’t mean I’m not still in the struggle. It simply means I’m willing to use alternative tactics to stay alive. To hopefully survive and someday be invited back into society.
Despite the burden I call my leg, I slyly hustle my way through the wooded area surrounding the path, dodging windows, streetlights, and security system cameras to the best of my ability. Eventually, I veer further away, taking my own created trail that leads me to the backside of the neighborhood club pool. Climbing the fence is easy. Avoiding the poorly angled security camera isn’t as easy but isn’t exactly infiltrating a sleeper cell difficult. Once I’m securely out of sight, I take a brief moment to dip my hands in the currently heated pool water and scrub away the crumbs that may have gotten into my beard.
I’ll bathe in non-chlorine water in the morning. It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me. No one else does. I’m not worth it.
I shake my hands dry into the cold night air on my way over to the back corner storage shed that the teenagers who run this place always forget to check at closing.
As long as everything is generally in the area it’s ‘supposed to be’ and nothing is obviously missing, no one seems to give a shit. Hey, their lack of giving a fuck about their job works highly in my benefit. It gives me a warm space to sleep when the temperatures get this low.
Inside the small structure primarily used for storing buckets and other loose pool tools, I rearrange some of the former and crawl around to rest behind them.
If anyone comes in before I have a chance to sneak out, I won’t be the first thing they see. It’s strategic. Which is probably my personal key to surviving nowadays.
I carefully dig out the fleece toddler blanket from underneath the food in my backpack accidently causing my dog tags to clink against something inside.