Good and bad, right and wrong, how do you know what's what?
| Today was the day. He was going to do it this time. He never understood the phrase ‘enough is enough’ until today, that’s when he knew. He lay on his back in his cardboard box, scanning his thoughts as he contemplated. There was no way he was going to suffer any longer. His worries now consisted of thinking about whether or not he should take any of his belongings, what very little there were. He assumed he wouldn’t need them where he was going, any-damn-way. Exhaling loudly through his nose, he struggled to crawl out of the container. Blissful thoughts of no longer being poor, no more begging on the street or scavenging a stranger’s barn for bits of grain the farm animals may have overlooked. (It was an anomaly if it did happen). No, today, he would bury his woes head-first into the Earth, plummetting himself directly through the gates of Hell. Hell was something that worried him before, but no longer.
Reaching his destination would be arduous, as he would have to walk. With his furry companion lagging, they traversed by foot through the concrete jungle that was the city. Stomach rumbling, his tired body shivered from the brisk evening mist. His pace became slower as he grabbed his grumbling midsection in an attempt to ease the pain. Hiking through the dark streets of the city, he heard a bell chime only a few seconds before a bicycle whizzed right by him, pushing him out of the way and down to the ground. The little terrier who was his company began yapping incessantly. Suddenly, the bicyclist slammed on the brakes and turned back toward him. He fumbled to gain a sure foot but panic set in as the rider got closer and at an increasingly fast rate of speed. As the psycho on the bike came towards him, the little dog turned tail and ran away as far as he could. Distracted by his little friend disappearing forever, he was not prepared for the sharp pain accompanied by the breaking of several bones in his left hand that had just occurred. He had been assaulted by the stranger on that bicycle.
White light was all he could see for several moments. When his vision finally returned, the crazy idiot on the bike had disappeared. The excruciating feeling in his hand had not, however. Screaming out, he burst into tears, staring at his maimed and bloody hand. Thinking to himself, he decided that the end absolutely had to be today; his lack of insurance and overall appearance would guarantee rejection at any local clinics. He started walking again, alone now and looked up ahead. He wasn’t too far from his final destination and soon it would all be over.
Hobbling down the street, he clutched his intensely throbbing and broken hand, passing by a late-night convenience store.
Dim light shone through dirty glass windows. A foul and powerful musty odor came over him as he made his way inside. He wondered why he had even come in here. What was the point if he couldn’t afford anything? Maybe it was just to get out of the cold, he thought. The cashier eyed him closely as he made his way down the aisles. Everything looked delicious and it was all so inviting, as if it was calling his name. Deciding that he had nothing to lose, he slipped a bag of chips into his pants.
Immediately the cashier yelled at him. “Hey, asshole, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The cashier pulled a shotgun from under the counter, cocking and pointing it directly at the poor man. Despite the throbbing sensation he was feeling now all over his body, slowly he put his hands in the air, locking eyes with the cashier, revealing pain behind lifeless eyes. A bead of sweat dropped from the cashier's forehead as any feelings of pity or mercy were instantly swept away. At that very moment, a man charged in wearing an old rubber batman mask from the early ’90s, wielding a .45 caliber pistol. The cashier had no time to react before the gunman fired two shots at him. The first bullet missed, embedding itself into a pack of Kools cigarettes. The other had gone clean through his skull. The vagrant held his breath, pondering as he watched. It seemed as though it had never occurred to the gunman as to why the cashier had already been holding a gun before he even entered the store.
Hiding behind a shelf and observing without a blink, the vagrant saw the gunman rush behind the counter, stepping over the dead cashier and the pool of blood oozing from his head. Magically, a crowbar appeared from the gunman's pants, which he used to pry open the register as if it were a treasure chest, hoarding all the money inside. He gave a quick glimpse behind his right shoulder, then grabbed the pack of Kools with the bullet hole in it. Just as quickly as the gunman had entered, he dashed through the door and faded into the shadows. Unbroken silence lingered as he began stuffing as much food he could ever ask for, (as well as a bottle of aspirin and a bottle of whiskey), into the pockets of his ragged clothing. Very faintly, he thought he heard that chime of the bicycle again, considering the irony as well as the possibility that the man who hurt him had also saved him. Only a few seconds had passed before he brushed the thought away. He left the store and began down the road in the opposite direction, back to his cardboard box.