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Rain. Moisture condensed from the atmosphere that falls visibly in separate drops. A natural phenomenon that has become heavily symbolic in literature and it's repetition has more underlying meanings than you may believe. Not everyone catches these hidden meaning, and many times the underlying plot goes unsaid. Rain can mean good blessing and fortunes are coming your way, and destruction and disaster that trample everything you have worked up to build. It's mystical music as mesmerized generations of homo-sapians for thousands of years. It's meaning will continue to befuddle brilliant minds for years to come.
Splash!
Or, sometimes, rain can just be annoying. Simple as that.
I grimaced down at my soiled boots, and flinched when the cold water soaked through the worn canvas. I ignored the piercing cold searing through my toes and looked around in defeat. My jacket had long gone soaking and light shivers racked my frail body. 2 blocks away, I spotted and unaccompanied bus stop, and quickly made my way over to the waterless haven. The moment my body was shielded from the frigid water, I collapsed from exhaustion of the welcoming bench.
The bus stop smelled distinctly of cigar smoke and long expired produce, however I welcomed the strangely familiar scent. Despite it's nauseating smell, the lonely, and unaccompanied bus stop made me feel at peace in the wet world around me.
Hugging my tattered bag tightly in front of me, I lightly smiled, and soon fell into a restless sleep.
My situation, although grim looking, isn't as bad as it appears. It would be worse, I remind myself everyday as a slightly trek through the country. I could be anxiously waiting in the dull, apathetic system office, waiting for my caseworker to get her shit together and figure out a permanent solution to my never ending problem.
As a lifelong child in the foster system, I can only hope you have come across horror stories that lie underneath it's shiny exterior. The fear of waiting for your social worker to say your out of options, or that it's time to move states. It's terrifying to read or to watch, and it's traumatic to experience every single day of your life.
10 and a 1/2 months ago, my foster mother, father, and brother were killed in a major car accident that left 15 dead, and 17 wounded on interstate 217. My foster family was number 9 in the list of homes I was old enough to remember, and they were also one of the nicest and most accepting homes I've had the honor of living in. I stayed with them for 3 years, and when they were driving down interstate 217 that fateful night, they were on their way to tell me they had officially adopted me into the Charles family. The police found the papers smoldering in the backseat.
Rather than wait to be placed in another home, and hope for the best, I ran. When I heard the news, I had no time to process their deaths, or mourn for their loss, only the heart racing fear the engulfed my chest at the though for being sent back in to the dwelling underworld of cycled abuse. I decided then that I wouldn't be placed in another home, because the next home would break me, and there would be no recovering from such a trauma. Because you can't fix what's broken beyond repair.
I awoke to a loud horn blasting in the eardrum. I quickly brought my hands to my (poor, poor) ears and forced myself to look up.
The sun was in the middle of rising, not that one could tell however, because last night's rain persisted into the morning. As my eyes readjusted to the new light, I was able to make out the figure of a rickety old community bus, and the faint letters [C U BUS] painted on it's side.
"That's very useful information." I groaned under and breath, and was greeted with another shrill horn in my ears. I quickly looked to where the bus driver sat, and saw him irritably tapping his wrist, signaling a tight schedule.
I sent him a confused look and signaled back I had no intention of getting the bus, with a quick swipe at my neck. I had no money, so I'm not anyone they would want on their bus anyways. In which the driver responded to with probably a few choice words, before he opted to flipping me off and angrily driving farther into town.
I quietly watched him drive away, and exhaust pipes letting out smoky clouds, as he headed further into the nearest town.
Silently, I picked myself off the cold bench, and threw my bag over my shoulder. I looked in the direction the bus went and started walking. My boots created low echoes off the damp concrete, the quiet melody welcomed by my turmoil brain.
As I silently walked into town, only a few cars passed me, in result to the early hour. However, as I left the quiet suburban area and into the bustling city, and the hour became more reasonable, the traffic got increasingly common, until it became commonplace.
My stomach ached of hunger, and I silently looked around for any options of free food. However, when finding none, I regretfully accepted my final option.
I didn't like to make a habit it.
If I ever found alternative options, i.e. Homeless shelters or soup kitchens, I gratefully thanked them for their services and even offered to lend aid. In those circumstances, I opted to staying in one place and often visited these places on frequent occasions.
However, despite my want to stay in those places, I knew I couldn't. Eventually people started asking questions about the poor homeless teen frequently visiting the shelter. And when people became curious, they started researching. Or worse, they called child services without a second thought, not caring about the situation the child may be in, or caring about how their actions will break the fragile walls they have built up.
So I leave before any of that becomes a problem.
But then, there is the problem if their isn't a known shelter nearby. I don't know what compelled me try this the first time, but ever since then, it's become more apart of my everyday life.
I silently wandered into a rugged apartment complex and made my way up the rickety stairs, wincing as each step was followed by a creak. After going up two levels, I started checking for doors already left unlocked.
Yes, I break into people's houses.
Call me a criminal, a crook, thief, pest, no good to society, I stopped caring after I almost starved to death. I first broke into someone's house 1 month into running away. An elderly couple who forgot to lock their door one night.
They found me sitting curled up in a tight ball in the corner of their kitchen eating last night's pasta. Yes, they were surprised, honestly that would be an understatement. Initially the older women freaked out, however after explaining that all I really wanted was food, they agreed not to call the police. They made me promise them I wouldn't ever do something like that again, I broke that promise within a week.
Since then, I have had quite a few close calls and times where I was sure I was going to get caught by the wrong people. However nothing I has ever happened since the first in the 27 houses I've broken into.
When finding none of the apartment doors empty, I sighed in discontent, and reached into my bag. Reaching past the strange assortment of items found in my backpack, I grabbed my growing collection of lock picks, paper clips, and wire teasers.
I looked at the collection with shame, and silently got up to examine the doors of the apartments. Carefully gauging the likelihood of each occupant being absent or off at work. After a couple long minutes of guesstimating and serval awkward encounters with the residents of this building, I can across an apartment that appeared and sounded empty, the windows black and motionless.
Sending my silent regards to the resident of this apartment, and quietly brought my pick collection up and started working on unlocking the door. Because of the outdated condition of the building, and no personal locks installed, the lock was rudimentary and easy to manipulate and I quickly gained access to the room.
Sending my prayers to all gods, and silently tiptoed through the apartment, and found the kitchen in the back of the main room. Although quite quaint, the kitchen proved very space efficient and effective for the area it occupied. I quickly located a freshly bought loaf of bread and a half used peanut butter jar. Decided that my recent breakthrough should benefit me for awhile, I stuffed the bread and peanut butter in my bag. Before I left, however, I noticed that this occupant had some lunch meat, and I took advantage of my situation and made a sandwich.
Siting quietly with my back to the cabinets, I let out a shaky breath before grabbing the nearest pen and paper. Putting all the spare items laying around, I composed a short note explaining the situation to the possible occupant.
Dear Sir,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and I regret to inform you of a terrible situation. I forcefully entered your home this morning, however I want to assure you I took nothing of great importance. I am I homeless wanders, who at the threat of starvation, entered your home and indulged myself in your edible items. The full list of what I took is inclosed in the second letter, and I hope you do not hold this against myself as a person. I thank you for your involuntary kindness and hope this does little to deter you from your daily activities.
With a heavy heart,
A homeless straggler
P.s: I recommend installing an updated lock system if you have a prosperous enough situation to do so. It would prevent situation such as this.
After leaving my farewell address, I walked out into the hallways and locked the door like it had been before. I calmly walked down the stairwell and out into the increasingly cold conditions of an early Ohio October. Leaving behind the apartment building without calling attention to myself in any ways.
Poetically feeling the weight of my actions weighing down on my shoulders, I confidently walked down the streets of the mystery city I was currently in. I occasionally offered to help struggling people with whatever tasks they were currently doing, receiving mixed reactions from everyone.
I wouldn't know how long I walked around until I found a small cozy coffee shop tucked away between a custom tailor and a 1950's ice cream parlor. I opened the door to Sons of Libertea, smiling softly as the bell echoed through the small room. The teen behind the counter back from cleaning the coffee machine.
"Give me a sec! I'll be with you in a minute okay!" She smiled sweetly and quickly ran back into the kitchen.
"A-actually-..." I stuttered, my throat hoarse and sore, causing me to cough before I could finish my sentence. I nervously bit my lip, and reached into my bag to see if I could scrap up a dollar or two. I wasn't planning on buying anything, more like I wanted to be surrounded by the comfort of the coffee shop. But now that the barista had taken complete notice of me, I feel only complied to purchase something before taking up a table for god know how long.
I was able to collect 97 cents from the bottom of my bag, so I quickly scanned the menu for the cheapest item. Noticing that the cheapest thing was a small glass of hot tea for $1.50, I tried to look for a couple more cents before the barista returned, however she re-emerged that moment.
"Alright thank you for waiting!" She kindly smiled at me. My eyes quickly glanced at her name tag, Abigail. Seeing the look on my face, she then asked "do you need more time to look at the menu?"
"Oh, no... it's just." I nervously hesitated. "I only have 97 cents, but is it possible for me to get a small glass of hot tea, I'd be willing to help clean out some coffee machines to make up for the-"
"Honey slow down." Abigail light-heartedly laughed. Quickly glancing at the cloths I was wearing and the bag on my shoulder, she sadly smiled. "What do you really want?"
I quietly thought of the frozen hot chocolate I had noticed at the bottom of one of the menus, and I felt my checks heat up from embarrassment.
"Oh honey..." I heard Abigail whisper, and I heard a light rustle of fabric, and next thing I knew I was being enveloped in a tight hug from the older girl. At first, my frame was tense from the sudden contact, before I melted into the older girl's embrace. I felt a single tear make its way down my cheek, and I cursed myself for being such an emotional wreck. I furiously tried to wipe away the tear, less more dare to follow. However, Abigail softy grabbed my wrist and lead me to one of the back tables.
"Are you going to tell me now?" She asked softly, keeping her hand in mine.
I quietly avoided her gaze, and muttered. "Can... can I have a small frozen hot chocolate?"
She sweetly ruffled my hair and replied "Why of course, on the house." She slowly walked away, and footsteps echoing through the small room.
Finally working up the courage to look up, I saw Abigail working behind the counter, a small smile gracing her lips. The coffee shop was streaming a pandora station, according the phone hooked up to the speaker, and I smiled bitterly at the irony of the song playing over the speakers.
"....No one cares for you a smidge
When you're in an orphanage
It's the hard-knock life
It's the hard-knock life...."