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Rated: 18+ · Short Story · Emotional · #1994391

Silently I sit alone in this place watching the world through an open window as it hurries along. People pushing and shoving their way through life. Nothing is important as they scurry along trying to outdo each other. Rushing through their lives day by day headed nowhere fast. There are no smiles, no handshakes, only empty hearted people with empty faces and judging eyes.

On the corner stands a little boy, maybe eight or nine, cold and lonely. He seems to be looking for something. Where are his parents? Why is he here on this street? From his pocket he pulls a gun. He looks it over as if confused. I can hear him crying as he stands there all alone. Suddenly from around the corner a car screeches to a halt, out from the window comes a hand with a rifle in it. The young boy tries to aim his gun, as he hits the ground, the car drives away.
He lies there dying on the sidewalk asking for help. No one hears, no one sees, no one helps. He dies all alone on a crowded street full of strangers who could have been friends.

I see, I hear, I call out, but no one answers. No one wants to get involved. They all see, but are blind, they all hear, but are deaf. They carry him away in an ambulance to somewhere else cold and lonely. I will never know his name, he will never grow older, I do not understand the people standing there shaking their heads, but not extending their hands. The rain comes and washes away the blood and the memory of a young boy.

There by the cafe, an old man with ragged clothes, tangled un-cut hair and worn out shoes pushes a cart slowly down the sidewalk. In his cart, bits and pieces of other people's thrown out and forgotten lives. I wonder who he is, where he comes from. Maybe a soldier who fought bravely in a war, someone's grandpa or a child long ago on a street corner who lost his way. When  people see him coming they cross the street, acting like he was some disease that might steal their very lives away. They never look him in the face to see if he were someone they might know. He turns the corner into an alley. There he opens the door to his home, a cardboard box; rained soak and full of holes. Everything he has left of his life is here. A few pictures of loved ones lie next to his newspaper bed on the dirt floor. He spends another night alone and hungry and not knowing if he will see tomorrow. He falls asleep to dream of better days gone by. No one hears, no one sees, no one helps. I call out but no one answers. He dies all alone in a town full of strangers that could have been friends. They come to take him away, still no one wants to get involved.

She stands by the door of the bar. She looks so old, but is only 15. She comes here every day at this time. She waits for someone, waits for something she thinks she can only find here. Her clothes are too tight and short revealing the little girl inside. A stranger approaches but passes by. From her jacket she takes a small bottle, opens it, and puts something in her mouth. From a paper bag she unscrews a brown bottle and takes a drink to wash the pills down. Instead of love, compassion and respect she only knows abuse, addiction and lust from the men who came to use her and then go on their way. She goes to a motel room, never knowing if she will come out again. He wants more than she is willing to give. He hits her over and over and she falls to the floor. No one hears, no one sees, no one helps. I call out but no one answers. She dies all alone as a stranger to those who could have been friends.

The woman looks over her shoulder as she places the pink blanket in the dumpster. She pauses as if to reconsider, but then runs away. In the darkness a small cry rings out. It lasts through the night until dawn. No one hears, no one sees, no one helps. I call out but no one answers. Here comes the trash truck, the dumpster is empty now. The pink blanket and baby inside are gone. Gone is the chance to grow up and make friends with the strangers who pass by. Gone because a mother could not love a baby that was born from abuse and drugs. Gone because no one offered help. Gone forever.

I am the conscience of a father whose son died all alone on a corner because he left his gun on the desk for the son to find.

I am the conscience of a daughter who was too busy to take care of her father, so he died all alone in a cardboard box in an alley, unwanted.

I am the conscience of a mother who did not take the time to understand why her daughter walked the streets, so she died all alone in a motel room, unloved.

I am the conscience of a young mother who did not want the responsibility of a baby, so she threw it her away like a bag of garbage and she died all alone in a dumpster never knowing love.

I am the conscience of the world. I call out, but no one hears, no one sees, no one helps. Every ones heart dies all alone never knowing how to hear, how to see, or how to help when others call out.

wc. 977 (c) August 2014
© Copyright 2014 Henny Penny (inky14dinky at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1994391