Dark clouds rumble across the sky, winds picking up trash and hurdling it through the streets. The cold of the rural streets was beginning to seep in. A dark car pulls into the neighborhood, traveling slowly down the street. A boy looks up from his cardboard home, situated in the alleyway nearby, and slowly gets up, walking over to see if he can get a handout. His muscular six and a half foot athletic frame shivers beneath a thin T-shirt, slouching, seemingly without a purpose. His long, brown hair uncut for several months, and stubble facial hair, unshaven and dirty, looks odd on his eighteen-year-old face. Hollow, intelligent grey eyes look on, expectantly, for the morsel that was hoped to be received. His jean pants, ripped and worn, falls long on his old and tattered shoes.
He walks up to the car, but that’s as far as he moves. For into those intelligent eyes there springs a fire of rage. His hands clench into large fists, and his face grows hot, as he sees the driver. An attractive young woman, late twenties, steps out, carrying a clipboard, on it several bank foreclosure sheets. She looks around for the next house, and starts to walk toward it. The boy is silent for a moment, wanting to do something, but not having the courage.
“I hate you!” he suddenly screams, with nothing else to say. Nothing else to express the intense feelings. The woman stops, not yet looking at him, an air of superiority about her. She had seen his type before. It happened quite often in her line of business, she thought. Actually, it happened to her more than anyone else. Pathetic beings who were unable to make a living should not become angry with her, but with themselves. She glanced in his direction, not giving him the benefit of looking her in the eyes. “It was not I who refused to pay the rent on your house, boy.” She emphasizes the last word. He grinds his teeth. “I had to feed my sister. I was all she had left. She was only nine, and you killed her. YOU KILLED HER!” he screams again, eyes wild with the rage. “I didn’t,” she replies in a callous voice. “The streets did. And besides, that was your mistake in the first place. Looking out for her was you’re mistake.” She doesn’t even turn around, her shoulder length cropped blond hair bobbing as she talks. Her thin figure is hidden under a large, expensive fur coat, and her jewelry is of the highest degree. She walks on, up to the house, and pulls out a notice. Stamping it on the door, she again walks past the boy, holding herself high with importance. Slipping into her large Porsche, she deliberately drives away, making sure to crush the cardboard box-made home in her path. The boy stands there for a few minutes, still. Then, in an outburst of rage, he punches a wooden crate, shattering the large box.
Suddenly, the fiery anger in his eyes has gone. In its place is a hard, cold hatred. He would not become like her. He would rise above her level. He would beat her, and he would crush her, as she had crushed him and his sister. But as he walks, looking for a new home, her face haunts him, and her voice reminds him of the fact of which he is very well aware. Her superior look and expensive clothing only confirm what he already knows, reminding him of what he has become. Reminding him of what he has. And reminding him of what he is. Nothing. That sweet smelling perfume taunts him of the lifestyle that is now impossible for him. And tells him what he already knows all too well. It is something he can never hope to become. Slowly, he stops, shoulders sagged, and drags himself over to a bench. Sitting down, he puts his head in his hands, and cries. The rain starts to fall. People pass on the streets and sidewalks, no one taking notice of the agony and hurt being handled by one so young. As the rain comes harder, and thunder cracks through the air, he slowly stands and walks away, disappearing into the mist.
The streets have claimed yet another victim.