Dead On Arrival [Peterick]

I'm Only Doing This Because Bins Don't Make Effective Pillows

Patrick has nowhere to sleep. And yes, he tried the fucking community centre, they wouldn't let him in, would they? Something about anti-social behaviour and unwilling to risk another police enquiry. Fucking dick-heads, that was one time.

So now, he has to find himself a nice piece of ground, instead. He can't go to the spot he was in last night, the fucking cops kicked him out, 'cause apparently it's his fault he's got no money and no roof over his head. Thanks for nothing, government.

The wind bites at his neck as he hurries through the streets, burying himself in his sweater and peering down every alleyway, hoping there's some kind of shelter. Literally anything will do, anything he can – bins.

They'll do nicely. Two big, square, blue bins the size of small sheds stand toward the front of this particular alley, with cardboard spewing out of them and everything.

It's late, there's not many people around, but he checks for cops anyway. You never know when they're gonna pounce on you. He pulls his hat down further, hunching his shoulders to keep from shivering. The nights are always cold, and they're only gonna get colder. The wind whistles through the streets, weaving with the beating music of the club down the road and the cars sweeping past.

When he's safely in the shadows of the alley, he reaches up and wrestles as much cardboard as he can carry out of the bins, cursing when the wind catches it and sends it spilling on top of him.

It's good stuff, though, better than he's had before, corrugated and clean. He gathers it up and lays it out in the corner between the wall and the bin, sitting down and feeling the cold breeze lessen.

He sets his backpack down next to him, digging through it to find his blanket. It's a mess, muddy and holey and wet from that fucking dick of a storm last night, but it's warm, and he's cold, so it'll have to do. Patrick won't eat tonight, he's gotta save the rest of that guy's money to get another sleeping bag, 'cause his other one was fucking stolen, those asshole teenagers. He hopes they die horribly.

And, for the record, he doesn't feel the slightest bit of guilt towards the dude. Who carries fifties around with them like that? He's probably a rich bastard, one of those people with a house and a job and a car. They can all die horribly, too.

He spent most of the money on new trainers, his old ones had practically worn through, and he has no desire to become any more acquainted with the ground than he already is, thanks. They're rubbing his feet a bit, socks are for losers, and people with money, but they're dry and that's all that really matters.

Trying to ignore the cold metal of the bin against his skin, not to mention the smell, Patrick pulls the blanket up around him, bringing his knees up to his chest and huddling as tight as he can into the corner. He knows he shouldn't sleep, but he has to, he has to. It's been too long.

His eyes fall shut, and he tries to imagine he's somewhere else, and not pressed up against a bin with the ground underneath him. It's hard to sleep when you're hungry, even harder when you don't feel safe, but he does anyway. He's used to it by now.

-

"...yeah, take the blanket too."

"What if he wakes up?"

"Who cares, just grab it and run!"

Suddenly, Patrick feels cold crash over him, his eyes snapping open, hands on him and voices near him.

"Shit, go, go!" someone laughs shrilly.

He rubs his eyes and sits up, just in time to see a group of kids charging down the alley, cackling their heads off.