I woke up on a gloomy Monday morning with one side of my face pressed on the cold interior of a dumpster I called home. It was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Pigeon feathers, apple cores and sweet wrappers littered the edges decoratively while old toys lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled rags of worn-out clothes, and a mess of newspapers, partially covering me, sat in a puddle of light coming from a lonely, stray ray of sunlight. The rats of the night scurried off for cover while I, the dominator of the garbage heap, heaved myself on two weak legs, each the size of a slightly overgrown chopstick, to start a new day. By midday business was booming. I had stationed myself near a famous café where most middle-class people would have breakfast before hurrying off to their diverse jobs. Numerous individuals took pity on me and spared me a few round coins and on rare occasions crumpled bank notes were sometimes whipped out. However a certain individual's picture stuck out as clear as glass in my mind, though it was not very pleasant. I had, unfortunately, chose the wrong day to walk up to a man who seemed extremely agitated, grinding his teeth as he stood there steaming. He looked up at me as I approached, his face was beaded with sweat although it was quite a chilly afternoon. He wiped his eyebrow with a white-gloved hand, pushing along as he did so, some of long greasy hair out of his face. A pair of thin spectacles sat upon his crooked nose, his nostrils flared at the sight of me. I extended my arm, without really expecting anything, to produce a chipped mug that was stained with dirt and gently rattled it. Without realizing what had hit me, a split second later the man had jumped to his feet, and had spat a relatively large amount of saliva in my direction, which hit me directly in the face and started dribbling downwards like cold, raw egg-white. He had then stalked off at a quick pace muttering furiously under his breath.
Night swam across the sky, as I huddled up in a corner, covering myself with filthy rags that had a sick grey tinge with striking resemblance to the colour of my unshaven and exhausted face. I rested my head on the window of the shop where I had decided to sleep. Minutes later, my head lolled over as I gave a huge grunt and my face was pressed against the window. The misty fug my breath had left on the window sparkled and reflected the glare of the orange street lamp, casting me into a world where I was not known, but just a ghost, just a nobody, just a beggar.
*story by Disturbed Stranger
