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Part 1

New

J. Adams

Copyright 2012 J. Adams

All Rights Reserved.

Orlando, Florida

Today is going to be a great day to die.

I am a complete mess and I know it. I also know what you see when you look at me. As sure as I'm standing here, I know.

You see a broken down human being, who, at the moment, is more being than human. Worn, torn and bedraggled. Lame, not of body, but of heart and spirit. Frozen in time and place, longing to pick up the pieces of my life but not knowing how.

Someone nudges me and I move forward, taking the offered bowl from a smiling volunteer in the soup kitchen line. Finding an empty seat, I sit down, avoiding eye contact with the others at the table. I am acquainted with them, but I find no need to speak, and neither do they. We've shared the same address–the city park lawn–for the past year. Our stories have been shared countless times, and the lines etched into our weary faces tell those stories.

Richard, the guy to the right of me, owned an accounting firm that plunged along with the economy. He went bankrupt and lost everything, including his girlfriend and his many so-called friends. Amy, to the left, is a seventeen-year-old runaway who had been kicked out by her drug addict parents. And sitting directly in front of me is Mark. His gambling addiction robbed him of his once comfortable lifestyle.

Demons. We all face them every day that we are on the streets, and we strive to make sure our stories are not forgotten. Like we are.

My story, however, is the most painful.

A year ago I was a successful writer for a national magazine. I was a wife, a mother, a friend. My lifestyle was a comfortable one and I had everything I needed and more.

One afternoon changed everything.

Coming home to an empty house is surprising, but that feeling immediately turns to shock as I enter my two-month-old baby girl's room to find her crib gone and the dresser drawers empty. Running to my room, a painful wail escapes me as I pull out empty drawers that had just this morning held my husband's clothes. Shaking my head in momentary denial, I try to make sense of it all. Then my frozen feet move. Just as I pick up the phone to call the police, the doorbell rings, making the call unnecessary.

I am told by the solemn officer that my husband has been in an accident. Jack, my little Heather and the woman with them all died. I have suspected Jack of cheating for a while now, but to take my baby . . .

Five long and emotional days later I am informed by the bank that because of missed payments (a complete shock and a mystery to me) my home is no longer mine and I need to vacate. Moving through a haze, I fill a backpack. Taking the five thousand dollars I have been secretly saving from its hiding place at the bottom of the cedar chest at the foot of our bed, I stuff it into my pocket and walk away.

After a three-month binge of drugs and alcohol, the money dwindles to nothing and the streets become my home.

Though no longer a drug and alcohol user, my life choices up to this point are clearly written all over my countenance and I am no longer able to see the real me. I have forgotten who I am. I am sick of heart and tired in spirit, and I have no desire to remain among the living, if you can call barely existing living.

I am insignificant, making no difference in the world, having no purpose, and no sense of worth. So I see no point in remaining among the living.

"I'm done," I whisper as I step from the curb into the path of an oncoming black SUV. I am so done.