Recreational Writing

There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day. He smells like a mixture of urine, trash, and vomit and has a long, dirty beard. He looks much thicker than he really is, the many layers of clothing obscuring his jutting ribs and emaciated stomach. He holds a weathered cardboard sign reading "Please Help." He long since stopped trying to write witticisms or jokes. On a good day this man can purchase a can of food or find a shelter that will give him a meal. On a good day, someone throws him a quarter and smiles at him. Most people simply pass him by, ignoring his existence entirely. A few tell him to get a job.

You may ask yourself, "what's wrong with him?" Well. Inversely to some people's assumptions, he is not crazy, or a drunk, or a drug addict. He once had a lucrative career, a family, a daughter, and a dog. His house was enormous, as was his bank account. This man had a life, and was truly happy. He woke up in the morning smelling a freshly cooked breakfast by a woman who loved him. He fell asleep with his arm wrapped around her waist and smelling her faint smells. They were his world. But, as everything does, it ended. In his case, with a car accident. Decades ago, this man and his family were on a vacation. They laughed, and played, and swam in the ocean. He watched with a smile as his wife laid on the sand, tanning and enjoying the sun. He helped his little daughter build her first ocean side sand castle. They all watched the castle wash away. They loved each other so much. On the journey back home the man fell asleep at the wheel, and drifted into oncoming traffic. The wife was killed on impact. The daughter was not so lucky. For days she lay dying in the hospital. The man was... lucky... enough to only have most of his major bones broken. He was not able to be by his daughters side as she slowly succumbed to internal bleeding. As you can imagine, he blames himself for their deaths. Blames himself for not being there for his daughter's last moments.

There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day, and he torments himself. He sits motionless and imagines the faces of the people he lost and wishes he was still capable of crying. He wishes he could kill himself. He wishes he could scream.