As I walked through the cold, lonely streets of Melbourne, I decided to take the shortcut home. Making a sharp left, I began to head towards the alleyway, which was dull and sinister.
The only sound of the night came from my own feet dragging over many rocks and pebbles on the cement. The breeze was very vehement and piercing upon my body felling like needles hammering into my flesh
From somewhere in the distance I sensed movement as I progressed closer, anxiety and fear grew. The first thing I observed about him was his clothing. He was dressed in a dirty printed t-shit, a pair of plain old thongs, shorts firmly at his knees held up by a black rusty belt, buckled loosely around his bony hips. He was tall, and bow legged, and freckled, he had blond hair and small ringed cobalt eyes, and what frequently goes with such things.
He sat on a dirty rustic mental box that was on the ground, hugging his knees close to his chest to protect himself from the cold. His eyes gazed and never left the pile of empty beer cans, which lay two feet away in front of him. The only movement was his constant and continuous shivering. I looked down from a distance to see a bent piece of cardboard reading “help me” heled in his swollen blistered hands. I didn’t know who this person was or what he was doing.
My life was never surrounded around people who sat across the streets with signs asking for help. I lived in the city with a house, a car and both parents. The house had windows that was so large it reminded me of a store front, it’s glazed crystal clear that the view is like a high definition screen at the movie theatres. However, my life changed after my father past away, I’ve been seeing quite a lot of these street like people now that I live in the lower class area.
I was frightened by this man. I’ve never witnessed somebody who sits so still through such conditions. Splashed over his face was a red liquid form, falling one after another like a tear. I didn’t know if it had belonged to him or to somebody else. The sensation of panic began to rise in my chest; so many thoughts were going through my mind. Should I turn around and run, try to talk to him or just keep walking and pretend like he doesn’t exist.
Taking to more steps closer to this man I discover the pungent scents of burning and alcohol
from a pile of cigarette and an empty bottle of whiskey. The light from the moon glared
onto the side of his face, which was still fresh with a bit of blood running down his noise.
As painful as it looked it didn’t seem to bother him at all.
I tried walking down the rest of the alleyway but something inside me made me feel bad for
this lonely man. I took the final steps towards him, slowly and cautiously, and stood directly
in front of him, I took out some money to place it in the cup, and he lifted his head and
looked at me for the first time. His face had made expression and was filled with excitement
. I suddenly hear a low rumbling sound delicately whispering “Thank you”.