raised by wolves

In this old city the rain falls so heavy sometimes you feel like all the problems of the world are held in each drop. Each wet plop could be a tear falling, each one full of someone’s pain and regret, fear and loneliness, anger, hatred, disgust and shame. The streetlights look like the burning eyes of cyclops. They are weeping, too, with the rain veiling them like a silk curtain.
Before I know it, I’m soaked through. I’ve become a sponge for all the world’s tears. I look up into the black sky and my eyes sting from the tiny needles of misery held in every drop. I don’t blink. I don’t flinch. I don’t look away. The black sky becomes my whole world and soon I drift off to sleep, the only thing resembling a sanctuary that I have left.
When I sleep, I have a dream, which surprises me when I wake up. I don’t usually dream, at least not anymore.
In the dream I am a samurai in feudal Japan. I am atop a handsome brown horse that carries me steadily through the countryside. I am wearing an elaborate suit of armor, bright red and dark green, with a snarling demon’s face frozen over my own. The demon sneers, but behind it I am smiling as I pass the edge of a farm. The sword at my side is heavy with the blood of fallen foes, those who would shame my clan and attempt to kill me. But I am serene and untouchable and I do not feel the weight of the sword. On the other side of a fence in the dream, at the edge of the farm, I see chickens. My horse plods steadily along. We have been traveling for some time.

When I wake, the rain has stopped falling and finally the sun is coming up. It feels like ages since I have seen the sun. I sit up and prop myself against a nearby wall. The bricks are still moist, as are my clothes. My shoes will squish and squash beneath my feet for the rest of the week, probably.
I stand and a fit of coughing hits me. My body is wracked with the pain of expelling lung tissue and phlegm and snot and tar. It makes a wet sound coming up my throat and when I spit it out, it’s a big ball of red and green, but not the same red and green as my samurai armor. I struggle for a breath and eventually the coughing subsides. I take off my jacket, a green military jacket with the name tag and rank and any other distinguishing marks long since ripped off, and hang it on the corner of the dumpster I slept next to the night before. I take off my shirt, a ratty black collection of shreds and patches that might have had a band’s name on it once, and wring it out. The shirt goes squish and for a moment, on a few square inches of concrete, the rain has returned. I do the same with my pants, jeans full of holes and stains, and my socks. I stand naked in the alley in the morning and hope not to be seen. But who am I kidding? No one comes down this alley. No one ever would, except the man who runs the store. He comes out here once every night to throw out the garbage. Usually I am sitting somewhere nearby, silent and out of sight. I don’t think the man knows I’m here. I don’t think he knows that what he throws away, the day-old hot dogs, the only-slightly-slimy deli sandwiches, the well-on-stale donuts, are what keep me alive. That is the reason I stay in this alley, I suppose. I’m sure there are plenty of places in this old city that throw away much better food, but I like to imagine that the shop-keep and I have a silent agreement.

I sit cross-legged on the hard concrete and wait for my clothing to dry in the cool morning air. Once they’re dry (or dry enough, at least), I put them back on and set about getting my breakfast. There is a small bag of hot dogs and kielbasa tucked down inside one of the larger black plastic bags that’s usually only got paper and plastic and other dry trash inside. I eat happily and then drift back to sleep.