sjsprWriting

He walked a lot. Some days he would start nowhere and find somewhere, but for the most part, he’d just be lucky to find anywhere.

He saw all of his friends die. Family, too. Killed themselves, in fact. Every last one of them. They didn’t get him, and eventually, somewhere, they all died.

He’d walk up to his mother’s front porch, bang the door a couple times; wait a while. He preferred this. He didn’t like the doorbell much, it reminded him of when he was a kid. All he heard was that damn doorbell; his folks yelling at him to get up and open for whatever friend was there from some time ago. They’d march through the living room, sometimes knocking him over, and greet the man or woman from somewhere. He thought that maybe they had another family or something. He thought that they cared about the people from somewhere more than the people right in front of them. So he’d bang on her door, and a couple of minutes would pass. He’d practice what he would say, even though he already knew exactly what he was to say. Sometimes he’d write it down on his hand, like he’d forget. How would he?  He did this every day. Finally, his mother would creak open the door and she’d just stare at him. Her eyes were glass.

“It’s a shame you killed yourself.” he’d tell her.

“Please, baby.” his mother would say to him.

“Yeah, it’s a shame you just offed yourself like that. As if you didn’t have no family or nothin’. What a shame.”

Then he’d walk off, and leave his mother clinging to the door.

He’d walk and walk, his mind a million miles away, scattered in pieces. He’d avoid the lights on the streets of neighborhoods. That would mean there were people there, and people tended to just kill themselves.

He’d walk to the coffee shop and sit at the same table. It was a couple of hours away from his house, but he didn’t mind. People were at the coffee shop; no one was at his home. He liked staring at people, some more than others. He’d find scars on their hands and wonder how they got them. Sometimes he’d see someone crying, someone trying to hide it, others wanting the attention. Some people were just steam; floating in and out of their cups of coffee. Nothing but hot air.

Sometimes in the somewhere where some ones found themselves, he’d spot a smile. It was the reason why he went, why his feet were oft relentless and his thoughts so far gone. It was foreign in the place he knew best, but he welcomed it. It was something in nowhere. He’d imagine if the smile was his, and why or what gave it life. He’d wonder if it just showed up one day, if it liked to walk, if it fell on his face from the sky or if maybe the wind carried it to him.

He’d get up from his chair; less hollow than it was before, and he’d walk home, passing old friends on the way.

“It’s a shame you killed yourself.” he’d tell them.

“Please, man.” they’d say.

“Yeah it’s a shame you just offed yourself like that. As if you didn’t have no friend or nothin’. What a shame.”

And he’d walk off.

He thought if he walked somewhere maybe he’d find something else, something better. If he looked at other people, he’d find something more than himself.

He saw all of his family die. Friends, too. Killed themselves, in fact. Every last one of them. They didn’t get him, and eventually, somewhere, they all died.

He saw them every day.