Page 6 of Compassion
“You know you want to…” I tease on a crooked smile, expression warm to indicate I’m being playful not mocking. “I meanIwould want to. It’s gotta be better than the shit my mom was trying to pass off as eggplant parmesan.”
The male lightly laughs again, shrugs in an almost disbelief nature, and relocates the object into his possession after showing me his open, unarmed, palms.
I knew he didn’t wanna hurt me. Not once did he reach for a weapon or display an aggressive behavior. Add in that I haven’t seen him twitching – like he’s on something or coming down from it – and being kind without fear is a no brainer. Besides, it feels right in my gut, and I was taught to always follow that. Dad’s not wrong about people, and honestly? Neither am I.
The trash spelunker grips the box now in his hands tightly, even tighter than the loaf of bread. A multitude of emotions cycle through his face, yet it’s the tiny tear in the corner of his eye that causes an ache in my chest. Rather than acknowledge it or remove his hands from the object he’s holding, he simply meets my stare.
Delivers a curt nod.
Grins to the best of his ability as the frigid wind reminds us both to get out of its way.
“Stay warm,” I quietly command at the same time I begin backing up towards my house. “And just knock if you need help making that happen.”
He doesn’t nod a second time.
Hell, the only reason I even know I didn’t give him a heart-attack from my totally absentminded offer is due to the slow blinking that occurs while he watches me disappear back inside.
Once I’m there, I lock all three locks like normal and rush to the nearby dining room to sneak one final peak at the unexpected visitor.
The homeless man continues to linger for a moment staring at my front door as if concerned for my safety rather than his own. He suspiciously glances around the cul-de-sac in search of any possible intruders before placing the box down on top of my trashcan. With a simple flick of the wrist, the top flies backwards, exposing him to a sight that irradiates his entire expression. His bright beam kindles my own and the gratulation of his first bite is so palpable, I can practically feel myself shaking in excitement with him.
Wanna know what’s really crazy? Talking to him…hearing him laugh…giving him that pizza…all of those things have felt better than any date I’ve had since Chris’s death. That’s the real red flag here. What does that shit say about me and the pathetic excuse I’ve come to refer to as my so-called life? Don’t worry. There’s no need to phone 221 B Baker Street for the answers. I, sadly, already have them.
Chapter 2
Archer
Pizza. Fuck, I love pizza. I’ve always loved pizza. Since the first time I had it in foster care, it became the one food I’ve always searched for whenever traveling somewhere new. And the worst part about the shit isn’t even found with the food itself! It’s the way people forget to treasure the treat. We’re talkin’, every little portion of it. They undervalue the bread whether it’s flat and thin or thick for a deep dish. They underappreciate the sauce regardless of if it’s traditional red or untraditional pesto. They overlook the true experience of various cheese flavors and types. Fail to notice when it’s fresh rather than frozen. How they melt slightly different. Oh, and don’t even me started on the blatant disregard of the veggies and meats that they’re so fortunate to have. The sheer combination of all those components, hot or cold is the equivalence of sex for your taste buds. It’s something that when people are getting it on a regular or have easy access to it, they can’t fucking be bothered to truly cherish the masterpiece that it is. They just take the shit for fucking granted and assume they’ll get it again at some point in their lives. Well, let me be the first to fucking say to you – in particular – to stop doing that shit. You don’t fucking know when it could be your last chance, or when you’ll be left wondering if you’ll get a chance again. Hm? What do you mean if I’m talking about sex or pizza? Pizza…but now that you bring the shit up? Both.
Still in slight disbelief, I give the door guarding the gorgeous woman who gifted this to me another glance.
Did you see her? I mean…reallysee her. She was fucking beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen quite a few in my time – side perk they don’t tell you about being in the military. I’ve been fortunate to admireand havesome of the most stunning females in various shapes, sizes, colors – ladies love a man in uniform – but Pizza Woman? Well…she takes that shit to a whole other level. That creamy coffee shaded skin makes me a type of thirsty I haven’t been in a long, long time. And that curly bouncy hair? Man…I can just picture spinning a single curl around one of my fingers just to hear that breathtaking sound she calls a laugh. Oh, and those eyes…Fuck me. Did you see those toffee-colored eyes? Yeah, they were a stop-in-your-tracks shade but more importantly they were filled with warmth. Kindness. Compassion. There wasn’t a fucking ounce of disgust in them. It’s rather surreal if I’m gonna be up front with you. Believe it or not, those aren’t the sentiments most people offer me.
The decision to devour or savor is a difficult one.
Logic and starvation push for the former. I should shove as much as I can in my mouth, ditch the box, and be on my way before someonelesskind andlessunderstanding catches me where I obviously don’t belong; however, hope has me anxious to appreciate the flavors.
The unexpected freshness.
The eyebrow raising amount left in this box that makes me wonder if Pizza Woman ate more than two pieces.
Another gust of wind shoots a chill up my spine prompting me to split the difference of the two options. I continue moaning in content over the slice dangling from my lips while securing the remaining portions in my backpack. After ditching the box in the recycle bin, I hastily stroll away towards the manicured walking trail that’s just on the other side of Pizza Woman’s back fence. More bone-chilling air brutally whips around me, and the noticeable drop in temperature provokes a sharp sting to rip through my right leg causing my slightly noticeable limp to be painfully more apparent.
Honestly, most of the time I completely forget it’s even there. The shit only seems to bother me when it gets too cold out or when the memories make a surprise appearance to strangle me alive. Hurts like a motherfucker then. Makes me wish I could just remove the whole damn thing. Remove…me.The world would be better off if I did.
Dragging my shivering frame along faster is done at the same time I slip my hands back into the pockets of the army green trench coat someone tossed out right after Christmas.
I assume his wife got him a new one. This was left in the box, but it didn’t match the picture. Grabbed the box, too. Made for an alright place to store food. Well, it did until someone in Rose Patch ratted my ass out to the cops, and I was forced to move without my belongings that weren’t on me. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, and I know it won’t be the last considering where I choose to collect supplies from. Knowing how people operate, especially in these types of areas, is the primary reason I keep everything I absolutely need in my backpack. I’m always prepared. To move. To flee. To start over. You know it’s funny, people think the only battlefield worth talking about in this world is the one we fight with assault rifles over bullshit politics, false ideologies, and greed. Trust me. The one you face when every person you encounter is just as desperate to live another day as you, you see the real war we should be fighting. The real soldiers. The battles being ignored day in and day out. Just because I make the active choice to stay out of the trenches by living off the grid near nicer neighborhoods doesn’t mean I’m not still in the struggle. It simply means I’m willing to use alternative tactics to stay alive. To hopefully survive and someday be invited back into society.
Despite the burden I call my leg, I slyly hustle my way through the wooded area surrounding the path, dodging windows, streetlights, and security system cameras to the best of my ability. Eventually, I veer further away, taking my own created trail that leads me to the backside of the neighborhood club pool. Climbing the fence is easy. Avoiding the poorly angled security camera isn’t as easy but isn’t exactly infiltrating a sleeper cell difficult. Once I’m securely out of sight, I take a brief moment to dip my hands in the currently heated pool water and scrub away the crumbs that may have gotten into my beard.
I’ll bathe innon-chlorinewater in the morning. It’s okay. You don’t have to worry about me. No one else does. I’m not worth it.
I shake my hands dry into the cold night air on my way over to the back corner storage shed that the teenagers who run this place always forget to check at closing.
As long as everything is generally in the area it’s ‘supposed to be’ and nothing is obviously missing, no one seems to give a shit. Hey, their lack of giving a fuck about their job works highly in my benefit. It gives me a warm space to sleep when the temperatures get this low.
Inside the small structure primarily used for storing buckets and other loose pool tools, I rearrange some of the former and crawl around to rest behind them.
