personal blog: simon

“how old are you?” she sat in front of me on the cold cement. I saw her from the distance approaching my curb as I hustled for some coins. I must have stank, but she didn’t quiver. I stared at her without a reply. “it’s okay.” she smiled, “I’m Sara,” and handed me plastic-wrapped carrot sticks and a muffin. like a bribe for me to open up, although not much of an impressive one.

“fourteen,” I answered with pride; the only pride I had left. fourteen, three months, and a day to be exact.

“you got a place to stay?” Sara asked.

I nodded. “the shelter near city hall.”

“is that all you have?” she looked over my scrappy knapsack, filled with few essentials. the one I stole from my brother and his second-hand parka. the warmest jacket I was able to find. ripped beanie hat and stolen boots. I mean not stolen from someone’s feet, but from a store.



“no.” I knew better not to have them.

“good.” she adds as if I have answered correctly.

but I was already a street kid, even when I lived at home. skipping school. getting into strife with local stores for abusive language, like the outpost of my father’s echo. he was notorious for slang and cursing. it was the only thing I knew well, but I never dared to do drugs. my abstinence from illicit pharmaceuticals has kept me alive.

I’m not sure what makes me think of that. maybe it’s my growling stomach. maybe it’s the fact that I have to drive into the city again. or maybe it’s the anticipation of meeting up with Bryan and for some inconceivable reason it brings back all the horrible in my life.

although, I can simply not go.

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© simon whittle — second act