(I'm Not Going) Anywhere

Someone tossed a few coins in my direction, where I lay curled up on the steps of a disused flat. I scrambled forward, hands snapping up the sad, few copper coins, fingers numb and desperate. Falling back into my corner, I counted together all the previous coins with the ones I had collected before. Enough for some decent food. Finally.

My few dismal belongings were packed safely into the greying rucksack that I hitched onto my back; a notebook, pen, a frayed, dirty blanket, a battered copy of Anne Rice’s Interview with a Vampire and a small metallic box engraved with script. The latter contain jewellery that had once belonged to my mother, as well as some that I had stolen from drunken holiday-makers.
The remorse was minimal: they didn’t need it anyway.
In one pocket of my ripped jeans was a Swiss army knife, and I slid the change into the other, before discarding the tin can and making my way to the nearest food store. Knowing Subway wasn’t more than two blocks away, I started a slow amble up the streets, pulling my hat low over my freezing ears.

It was only October, and this was my third month on the streets. The thought of winter months left to come made me shudder; sometimes, I thought it might be a little bit unfair that dirt like me had to put up with this.
But, then again, as dirt, isn’t this all I deserved?
The artificial lighting of Subway flooded my vision and mild warmth submerged me as I hurried my way to the bathroom. Bathroom needs first: making my way to the back of the store, I located the men’s public bathrooms. The inside wasn’t as clean as I might have like, but beggars…

At the sink, I rested my bag on the edge of the sink to let my shoulders relax slightly and also to pull out the even fewer toiletries I owned. A small bar of honey-scented soap was still in the wrapper, and I slipped it out, balancing it precariously on my blue-tinged fingers.
Just because I am dirt doesn’t mean I need to feel like it. I hope.