7. Homeless
HOMELESS
FAITH
T he young deputy, Paula’s boyfriend, went through my bag when it was delivered from Ripley’s, so I have it with me when I leave jail. My phone doesn’t have a charge, but I have twenty dollars in cash to get me home by taxi.
I go up to my apartment and find a note taped to the door in red marker: Thieves aren’t welcome here.
Heat rises through me despite how cold I am. I have a coat, but it’s in the diner.
I take the stairs down to the super slash landlord’s apartment. I only have to knock once.
The man opens his door. He is in boxer shorts and a T-shirt.
“My…things,” I manage to say.
He shakes his head at me and goes back inside. When he comes out, he’s carrying a single black trash bag. He throws it on the floor in front of me.
I freeze, like I did when Jamie kicked me in my chest.
The black plastic glints under the hallway light.
Suddenly, I’m twelve again, standing outside a foster home with my life stuffed in bags like garbage.
No suitcase.
No boxes.
Just trash bags.
Because that’s what you are, right?
When no one wants you. When you don’t belong.
“I had a suitcase,” I say.
“Don’t know nothin’ about that. Now get the fuck outta my building,” he snaps and slams his door shut.
I want to bang on his door and demand that he give me my suitcase. It isn’t special, it’s…a way to carry my things, so they don’t have to be put into trash bags.
I drop to my knees and open the bag.
My clothes are crumpled, shoved in like they were scraped off the floor.
My toothbrush snapped in half.
The book I was reading— The Master and Margarita —has a boot print on the cover.
I look for my jeans, old, faded, where I hid my money. I rummage through the bag, empty it all on the floor.
There’s nothing. It’s gone.
I collapse on the floor.
I look at the door again, but I know it won’t change a thing. I am a thief—they’ve branded me, and no one will believe me when I tell them my truth.
The asshole took my money. Four hundred dollars. All my savings. My security. All that I had.
I have nothing now.
Not the money I saved.
Not the job I loved.
Not even the two hundred I came to Silverton with.
I carry the trash bag, walk out.
It’s drizzling. It’s dark.
I don’t know where to go. In Seattle, I’d find a homeless shelter, but this is Silverton, and it doesn’t have homeless people.
The numbness inside me is taking over, and I can’t feel a thing.
I’m cold, I know that because I’m shivering. But deep down inside me, there is the promise of warmth. Of silence. Of shutting down.
I wander until my legs give out. I find I’m near the library. I know this place well. I curl up behind the stone steps, feeling like an animal that no one wants.
Jamie did a lot, but he never stripped me of my humanity. He never took me away from me. I always bounced back, found myself, but now, I can feel nothing, like I’m still unconscious but without the beeping sounds of a hospital.
The cold eats at me.
My fingers ache.
My lips crack.
I try to sleep, but the wind finds every gap in my layers.
My body feels hollow. My head swims. My breath clouds in the air and doesn’t clear. I think I’m getting sick. Or maybe I already am.
I start seeing things—blurry shapes at the edge of my vision. A shadow that looks like Cain is standing across the street. A foster mother is yelling at me.
None of it is real.
Even the hunger inside me isn’t.
Maybe I’m dead, I muse.
If I’m dead, then it’s nice. It means I’m safe.
But is heaven supposed to feel so lonely? This cold?
You’re in hell, Faith. For all your crimes, you’re in hell, and this is where you’ll remain.
I begin to cry softly.