Homeless
1/1
The bitter cold wind of the Chicago night bit through Sylvia’s clothing. Nothing she wasn’t already used to, but it never ceased to soak deep into her bones and cause her to ache, already weary from the day she’d spent with a dirty cardboard sign, desperately trying to convince people she wasn’t the drunk or psychopath that they thought her to be- just trying to make enough money so she wouldn’t have to dumpster dive for her next meal.
Not, of course, that the pickings were very slim around the supermarket dumpsters. She could easily find enough food -good food- to fight off the hunger for another day or so. No, the problem was the locks on the dumpsters and people who would chase her away; or worse, call the cops on her.
Something she would never full understand, but Sylvia had to eat, after all. And she was young, several years younger than her dirty, ragged appearance made her seem. Therefore, she could probably outrun any police officer on foot.
At twenty-five, she often felt sixty. Sleeping under overpasses and fighting to stay warm would do that to you.
Sylvia probably would not live long like this. But the shelters were filled to the brim with people like herself, and she had grown used to the idea that people didn’t give a damn what happened to her. She was nothing to the people who passed her on the streets. Nothing but an eyesore and what they viewed as a possible danger.
And she had stopped worrying and feeling sorry for herself a long time ago, her fears for her own safety, living on the streets, had vanished. Replaced by a new fear.
A fear for the small, hungry, squirming mass that she kept tucked away safe inside her dirty, worn out jacket, making sure not to smother it but to still keep it safe from the cold.
The baby she had given birth to, the child she had named Sophie, was who she worried about these days.
Not, of course, that the pickings were very slim around the supermarket dumpsters. She could easily find enough food -good food- to fight off the hunger for another day or so. No, the problem was the locks on the dumpsters and people who would chase her away; or worse, call the cops on her.
Something she would never full understand, but Sylvia had to eat, after all. And she was young, several years younger than her dirty, ragged appearance made her seem. Therefore, she could probably outrun any police officer on foot.
At twenty-five, she often felt sixty. Sleeping under overpasses and fighting to stay warm would do that to you.
Sylvia probably would not live long like this. But the shelters were filled to the brim with people like herself, and she had grown used to the idea that people didn’t give a damn what happened to her. She was nothing to the people who passed her on the streets. Nothing but an eyesore and what they viewed as a possible danger.
And she had stopped worrying and feeling sorry for herself a long time ago, her fears for her own safety, living on the streets, had vanished. Replaced by a new fear.
A fear for the small, hungry, squirming mass that she kept tucked away safe inside her dirty, worn out jacket, making sure not to smother it but to still keep it safe from the cold.
The baby she had given birth to, the child she had named Sophie, was who she worried about these days.