I missed the way it feels to live under a roof. It had been nearly a year since I enjoyed living without having to worry about rain dropping onto my face. But I figured it was not entirely unsettling to sleep in an open street. Although the bare exposure to the metropolitan surroundings might sometimes disturb me with whatever noises in a busy night, I would still be content as I lay down in a dark alley, absorbing what is left from the magnificence of the night, looking at the stars which merely beautified the firmament like precious orbs of the night. True, there are so many things in my life as a destitute person that I could go on and on about. However, I had grown adopting a new set of paradigm, a new way of looking at my despondency which allowed me to live life more hopefully.
If destiny had been more accepting – and patient, apparently, – I would not have faced the wrath of my landlord (an aged, geriatric man) when he had discovered that my boarding cost had been in arrears, which he expected should have been settled in each end of the month, and it was overdue for three months long. My job as a freelance writer often did not pay off, and salaries may be transferred as late as twice later the expected time; it might even be the earliest. I appealed to him for later payment, hopeful that I will receive my wage soon enough. Unfortunately, it was not something my landlord could see eye-to-eye with. He kicked me out, still expecting me to pay off the overdue fees but I did not say anything to him.
Walking away from my first home was a devastating experience. I was forced to let go all of its luxuries. I thought of my bed, my clothes, and my food – ah, yes. Food. Among every problems I encounter, I was most worried that I would have nothing to eat. My mind was shrouded with utter terror, thinking on how to survive without food. I saw a homeless man rummaging from the piles of rubbish to search for food, and my heart ached, too petrified to face such an impending doom. That was why I had settled myself across a convenient store, so I ensure myself I had easy access to food. However, although it seemed that it would help me settle my problem pertaining food, it actually had not done much help.
If only he was more understanding. That clerk.
One scorching afternoon, my throat was as dry as a desert, and I could not find anything to drink. I struggled to quench my thirst with my saliva, as, to my lucky surprise, a small bottle of drinking water rolled out from the box the clerk carried inside his store. Stoked, I snatched the bottle immediately for myself. I was about to open the cap and flow the water down my throat, but I realized I had done something terribly wrong. I looked up, and there was the clerk, looking at me with dark, reproaching eyes. Equipped with a clenching fist, he forcefully retrieved the bottle from my hand, and pursued to ridicule me with inhuman names. He did not even give me any chance to explain myself. Since then the store clerk regarded me with great disdain, warning me that for any occasion I have the nerve to lay my fingers on his merchandise again, his anger shall descend upon me like there is no tomorrow. That clerk.
The imminent image of that past terror festering in my soul was the reason I was always taken aback every time I thought of entering the store. He was the reason why I began to look at other ways in which I may obtain myself something to eat, and he was the reason why I came up with the only alternative which was the most promising – stealing. I have made myself to grow accustomed to steal from people’s groceries, which I had been doing the past couple of weeks.
Despite how accustomed I was to stealing, I did not even bother to remember those pitiful times, for it had created an awful representation of me as a person. I even overheard a rumour among the clerk and his customers, speaking lowly of me as a desperate and starving girl who would harm his customers by chasing them endlessly "like a dog". My pride suffered, but I composed myself. Not even a string of words described my annoyance to them. That clerk.
I reasoned myself that all I did was for my own good, despite the perturbing feeling of guilt which comes with it. They may judge me as corrupted, but for the sake of survival, I was sure anyone with common sense and a starving stomach would not mind losing their own sense of morality and put their need of food ahead of other people’s. It was part and parcels of my own conscious effort to keep living - and perhaps, to stay away from incurring the devil’s nefarious wrath.
***
It was an excruciatingly dreadful night as I was engulfed in uncontrollable famine. My stomach had not stopped emanating a loud growl like never before. My thoughts were veiled with fear of dying from hunger. My heart, illuminated with the dimmest light of hope, mustered up courage.
Entering the darkness of the alley was a young man. He was new to the gloomy darkness, an uninvited guest even the walls of the alley were alien to. But he welcomed himself into the premise, heading toward the convenient store, knowing nothing of me, nothing of the clerk. As he reached for the door, he looked back and turned his eyes on me, sitting with my knees curled up to my chest, trying to handle the great grumble gobbling in my stomach. I responded to his eyesight. His eyes seemed indistinct, as if he was pained for having seen an unimaginable malevolence of life, as if he wanted to question how I had come about. Then swung the door open, and the store bell rang automatically. The clerk asserted to his admission with a delightful greeting, showing off his ability to fake a warming welcome.
I eyed on what the man was buying. Maybe he could get some delicious food out from the store, and I can just easily steal from him. And he did. The man looked at the stacks of sandwich neatly arranged in the cold compartment. His eyes was fixed on the fresh green lettuce, the juicy delicate slice of bacon, the melting succulence of cheddar cheese which mingles tantalizingly with the two slices of eggs, all concatenated within two slices of crisp grain bread and wrapped as one heavenly triangular goodness. He grabbed two of them.
He wandered about the cold beverage section. Among the settlement of the cold bottles glazed with frozen mist, caught his attention was a bunch of bottles of refreshing lemon tea, a tea of mouth-pampering flavour deliberately concocted to complement the palatability of the sandwiches. He acquired two bottles from the lemon tea assembly.
He approached the store clerk and surrendered the items. Still putting up a smiling mask, the clerk scanned all the items and put them in one grocery bag. All my attention was harboured on that bag. The man then left the premise. He looked at me, and our eyes met again. He saw me observing all the proceedings in the store, and he knew he looked at me before he entered the store. Something in my head said to me that he knew I was up to steal.
Usually by now I would have snatched his grocery, the store clerk hurried himself out from his position and warned him of me. And then all of us would be back to the point where he speak of rumours about me, back to square one. But at that night, everything changed. The routine was altered. Something different took place, something unbelievable, defying my expectations.
The store clerk stood there, held agape of the unforeseen event. The man did something that nobody else ever did that had risen me from my undoing, something that made me believe in humanity once more. He courageously moved towards me unafraid. He reached for the sandwich and the lemon tea inside his grocery bag, and gladly offered it to me. “Here, for you,” he said. “I think you need these more than I do.”
I looked up to him. He kept extending his arms, waiting for me to accept his giveaway. His eyes was wandering elsewhere, and his hands trembling as if encountering the unusual, but the warm kindness which illuminated from his heart supersedes his apparent anxiety. He was a pure stranger to this place, and yet his benevolence was resplendently radiant, superimposing the darkness in this alley. Never have I ever witnessed such purity in intention.
I retrieved the items from his hands. The sandwich was still fresh, and the lemon tea still cold. It was unimaginable for me that although despair had pushed me until the brink of hopelessness, it still decided to grant me mercy. The man retreated, and started walking towards the end of the alley.
I opened the wrapping of the sandwich. The enticing aroma of the bacon immediately invited my appetite. Quickly I devoured the sandwich, and drowned in an utter speechlessness as the crisp bread touched my tongue. The taste of it was exquisitely wonderful. Its tastiness was amplified by my hunger, rendering the unpretentious meal a palatable dinner.
***
As I was revelling with my meal, the store clerk was looking at me. He gave me the usual disgusted look, as if he never cared about me in the first place. I continued eating and casted him a contemptuous look. I bit the sandwich mockingly in front of his eyes, condemning him for his indifference. He kept his expression cold; so did I with my scornful face. He did not even bothered my existence. How he was so engrossed with the feeling of disgust over me!
He kept looking at me for a long time, intently, unwaveringly, reflectively. Suddenly, he looked overwhelmed with waves of thoughts. He continued discerning at an emptiness. I kept my eyes on him as his facade gradually went sore, as if witnessing a terrible incident. For the first time I could not comprehend him. He looked at me saddened, slowly dissolving my hatred and turning them into profound concern. Was he even looking at me? Probing, I approached him, but as he kept looking aimlessly, the store was shrouded with the gloom of extrusion. He was there, standing in the corner of loneliness, consumed with a feeling of regret unbeknownst to anyone but him.
He looked at his watch. It was time to close the store. He reached for his bag and went to the storage room. The store lights were instantly dimmed. He exited the store, and paused his walk as he looked at me. He approached me and joined me as he sat down next to me, leaning against the alley wall. Unsure of his actions, I kept munching on my sandwich, expecting him to host a conversation. For a moment the alley was dominated with the raucous echoes of speeding vehicles from the metropolitan.
He settled himself to his seat, and he began muttering, “You know, I… I’m not the type who is reserved and aloof. I actually, uh… used to be open to everyone. I used to like helping people like you out.”
I had finished my sandwich and crushed the plastic wrapping. I peered to his face, looking at him facing the ground.
“I really love to help people, really. It’s the most heart-warming thing for me to do.”
I kept silent, looking at the lights at the end of the alley. A car zoomed through.
“I have a friend, I knew him from long ago when we were classmates at high school. I found him sleeping on the sidewalk. He told me that he got locked out by his landlord ‘cos he couldn’t afford the lodging fees for his room.” His eyes was fixed on the darkness inside the store. “He used to look appropriate, but now he looked like he was suffering and… I thought he could use some help, you know, since we knew each other. So I offered him to stay at my place for some time.”
He looked down at his fidgeting fingers, and mumbled, “When we reached my place, I told him to make himself at home. He then settled himself on the couch and started snuggling on it. He looked pleased, and told me something like, ‘Thank you so much, I don’t have any idea how I would live on without your help,’ and all that… and I felt happy for him too.” Tears started to well up inside his eyes.
He continued, “We live together comfortably since then. He started to look better, and he even earned money for himself. I was glad that he was recuperating very quickly, and he said he was going to stay with me for a little while until he found another place for him to live in. He returned very late with a huge sum of money. He said it was extra wage from work.”
“I had to be away for work for a week, and I trusted him to take care of my place. He seemed to agree.” His stare to the ground became sharper.
“The day when I was on my way back…” he shivered. “…I stumbled upon a huge fuss. The whole neighbourhood gathered in front of my place. I asked them what the matter was…” His mouth was quivering.
“They told me that the police came to my place, accused my friend of illegal drug dealing, and put him in custody.” His voice became shaky. “I didn’t believe them, and I rushed into my place to see it for myself.” A speck of tear flowed down his cheek as he reminisced. His eyes was filled with utter terror. “The place was empty. My furniture went missing, and all that’s left was a shipwreck. I was both confused and angry. I asked them what had happened during the week I was away, what he was doing, and what has happened to my place… and it broke my heart.”
The echoes of the vehicles grew silent. “I helped somebody homeless. I provided shelter to somebody. I helped somebody to recuperate… I had always been nice to people around me, and that was the first time I regretted it.” His words were paused with a pensive silence. He wanted to stop appearing like he was about to cry, but it seemed painful. “I became traumatised by the thought of helping people since then. I’d always think twice before showing my sense of remorse to despondent-looking people on the streets, just to make sure that my actions won’t harm me for the second time. I’ve grown to associate the poor people I see on the streets with crime, with violence, with something that I am subjected to just because I wanted to be helpful towards others. I regard them as cruel monsters.”
“That was the image I immediately formed of you. I was even more certain when I started seeing you stealing people’s groceries around the opposite of the store. That was why I went mad and screamed at you for taking the water bottle. I was too traumatised, I just wanted to keep my life away from street people. I didn’t bother doing the good things in life again, ‘cos I’m afraid it will harm my life again and I will regret it.”
He looked up to the sky. The night orbs were shining through the city mist. “But I guess I regret it more when I don’t do what I feel is right for my own self… to help people out.” He buried his face on his arms, his tears flowing down through his cheeks.
I sat there, my heart surging with pity and gloom. It never occurred to my insight that beneath his malevolently fierce countenance, it was a horrible pastime of misgiving, festering in his soul and slowly devouring his human self.
And just on that instance when all hope seemed lost, his determination resonated in my heart. It spoke of how much he was desperate to help me out, but he could not overcome his pastime, the barrier that he had always desired to climb over, in order to retrieve his habit of ‘helping people out’. He seemed entirely hopeless. He thought that it was impossible for him. But he was wrong, misled.
“…Don’t you have anything to say?” he asked.
There was hope – a huge one just waiting for him. He had a huge determination to help out, huge enough to get over that overshadowing pastime of his, that virtual demon that had always brought him down from climbing so far up the walls of persistence, reaching the top and see that beautiful sunrise, see that reaction of people when witnessing such a beautiful habit of his that once was the victor of his human self. All he needed was a word of encouragement to push him through.
“Do you still hate me that much?” he reacted unthinkingly.
I knew my heart had reached out to his heart. I could sense his heart also knew it. But he did not notice. He was just focused at my face for no reason, not at my heart. My eyes made path with his eyes so that he could see through me and to my heart, but his eyes were dimmed with apathy. Hatred retrieved its dwelling back in his mind, again shrouding his trust over humanity which was once rekindled, but now extinguished. He trusted no more.
“And after all this time I’m telling you my stories to tell you how sorry I am.”
He rose from his seat harshly, and turned his face away from me. “I’m just someone so desperate to help people out. So sad that no one out here in this world gives me the chance to. Or say that they feel sad about me,” he walked away from me, to the lights of the metropolitan at the shiny end of the alley.
I was behind him, engulfed by the dark end of the alley, screaming my heart out loud that I wanted him to take care and keep his spirits up.
If only he knew better about me – if only he knew the true reason why my landlord had become unreasonable with my debts – if only he knew why I did not return his reproach when I snatched the rolling water bottle from him – if only he knew why I did not have that ‘string of words’ to tell how irritated I am to the people who condemned me.
If only he knew I wished I had those quotation marks like he did.
He just talked, but did not listen. He was deafened by his own speech. He could not hear a single thing. He could not hear my eyes screaming and my heart shouting of mercy and love. He did not knew I was a mute, a mute who wished him the best of humanity.
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