Matthew Newton

What the Message Was: (part eight) by Matthew l Newton

“Some taxi you is!” An old woman, lacking clothing apart from the scrap of sheet she has wrapped around her torso slaps the back of my head before storming off in the other direction.

“I never said I’d give you a ride, witch.” She doesn’t hear me. I’m not sure I was talking to her anyway.

Since being bashed by the yellow beast that left half of my body purple, yellow and blue, or a kind of purplish blue reddish puss looking something, I have spent most of the days sitting on a curb, any curb watching people go about their days. None of them notice, which was nice. Fuck em. I could be that one peice of trash that for no reason at all never gets picked up.

“You said so, and you mean it bastered!!” She is still yelling at me, about a block away now. That or the lost child that’s been sitting in the same spot for maybe a week now owes her some unimagined favor as well.

“Shut up ya’ld bitch!” He screams back, standing up suddenly he grabs a stick and begins chashing her away from his spot. They disappear behind the corner, there is a screech of tires and someone is screaming bloody murder.

Probably a bloody murder. The kid did look unstable.

“Time to move.” I tell myself. It takes everything just stand and I am forced to lean on the street light for a minute while the stars around my eyes disapate. A few blocks from here is a shop that gives out bread after noon. Whatever is left over from the morning bake. If I can get there early I might be able to eat today. I’m nearly there before the sirens close in on the scene behind me. Or at least I think that’s where they are going, there are sirens everyday here. They go everywhere. They never stop, you can never really sleep.

When I get to the shop they are already handing out bread. It is warm and fresh and the best tasting thing I have had in maybe a month. I fill my coat pockets and scamper off to find a safe place to eat, maybe sleep, maybe.

Matthew Newton
DOC #81868

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