Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
The exhaustion never leaves me. I don’t know if it’s the hell of the last year or the constant hunger pains, but it’s obvious I won’t be able to continue on like this much longer. When I think about my reality—the fact that I’m sleeping in an alleyway behind a dumpster with one sack of clothing to call my own—I want to break down and cry. In fact, I do. It’s become my morning ritual. But when I’m done, I always manage to pick myself up and carry on, knowing that it won’t be like this forever. Soon, everything will be okay.
A glance at my watch confirms that it’s still early, and I have almost the entire day to waste before I go back to work tonight. Realistically, I should be looking for another part time job in the day time, but so far, that hasn’t panned out. I guess people aren’t too eager to hire you when you show up in a pair of tattered jeans and a hoodie.
I stand up and shake out my limbs as I try to figure out what to do. There are a lot of things I could be doing, but most of them are too risky. Unlike the other homeless in this city, the shelters and foodbanks aren’t an option. Not when the Locos are looking for me. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt because of me, and that’s exactly what would happen if I chose to go that route. They want me dead, and they aren’t the kind of men who will spare anyone in the process, innocent or not.
There was a brief moment after Muerto’s death when I considered going to the cops. I had nowhere else to turn, and everything had been stolen from me. My entire life was gone, and I found myself suddenly free with only a handful of options, each one of them a potential disaster. But I couldn’t forget what happened the last time I went to the cops. In the end, I was still on my own. A piece of paper wasn’t going to protect me from the Locos or anyone else. It was up to me, and me alone.
Every day that I’m out on the street is a gamble, but it’s one I’m willing to take for a better life. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I want to take another gamble today. Jumping on a bus and heading up interstate 93 to New Hampshire is the only thing that makes me feel alive anymore. It’s been three days already. Too long, and yet not long enough. Every visit is a risk, but I can’t live without them.
I stash my belongings behind the dumpster and gather up my cash from the night before, zipping up my flimsy jacket and throwing on my hood and the sunglasses I plucked from a table at Sláinte. The bus station is a short walk, but every step feels like a mile.
Out of habit, I check over my shoulder often, never able to shake that feeling I’m being watched or followed. But this early, in this part of the city, everything is still quiet.
I make it to the station intact, and an hour later I’m nestled into the back of the bus where I can keep an eye on everyone. It’s a sparse crowd this time of day, and I’m tempted to nod off again, but I don’t. I can’t let my guard down. Not when it comes to these trips. If anyone even looks twice at me, I won’t hesitate to jump off and head back to Boston.
The bus arrives just a little past eleven, and my joints creak with the stiffness that comes from sleeping on a cold ground when I get off. But one sniff of the New Hampshire air makes all my aches and pains disappear. I can’t contain the smile that tugs at my lips as I beat it down the sidewalk and begin my four-block journey on foot.
I’m grateful that Conor took pity on me and bought an entire box of donuts this morning because without them I’d be feeling pretty weak right about now. Trying to dissect that kind gesture can only lead to a headache, especially when he’s insistent on reminding me that he hates me.
The man is confusing, to say the least. One minute he acts like I’m nothing, and the next I catch him staring at me with an intensity that could melt the sun. I’ve already caught myself giving him way more thought than I can afford, but I can’t and won’t let myself get caught up with a guy like him. Not when I have so much at stake. I’m reminded of that when I find myself on the doorstep of the beautiful white house with the red door.