There is a
homeless man, wondering in the streets. He is known to sleep in the cold
winter night, in a dark ally, near a shut down 7-11.
There is a girl
named Daphne, she is 12. She likes to take the path home that go past
the 7-11. She enjoys throwing rocks at it. Clearing her way.
This story tells
the account of the homeless man's last months, before his untimely
death. It has been re-typed and edited to fit the mind of educated
people.
Enjoy your reading.
September 2nd,
1973
I've been homeless for as long as I could remember. I recently
found out that my beloved father has died.
There is a
backstory to my life.
When I was born my mother and father were both
newlyweds. My mother married my father after she knew he was good to her
the only time he got angry is when she called him Patty. No one calls
my father Patty, his father called him that.
He deeply hated his
father.
My father thought it was unproper for the woman to provide for
the family so he was the only one who had a job. This was during The
Great Depression, so it was extremely rare to have a job.
A few months after
I was born, my father grew angry over his life, his job and that damn
depression. He went mad, insane actually. He never let anyone know what
he thought, of the world or anything for that matter. Then one night, my
father had heard that the factory's workers would be laid off. My
father couldn't take that, he couldn't take that he lost. Lost in luck. My father, after hearing the news; stormed out, he
drove for hours, eventually he stopped driving right when he saw a Bar.
He spend all the money in his pocket on Alcohol. My father didn't have
much money, so he was mostly sober. He went to his car and lit a
cigerette after losing a game of pool. One of the drunken men at the Bar
came out and yelled "Patrick! Patrick! Patty 'ol Patrick!".
At that moment my
father went crazy.
My father ran out of his car and strangled the
man. But it wasn't over there. He realized the man was still breathing,
just playing dead.
So my father lit him on fire because he basically
lied. The only other thing he hated more that his father was liars.
It was very
graphic.
Hours later, a knock came at the door. My mother got out of bed
eager to see her husband, but instead a police officer was at the front
steps. He told my mother what happened and her husband was under
custody. My mother cried, knowing her husband was crazy, it seemed like
he wanted to screw up. It seemed like he didn't want life, he didn't
want her.
My father went to prison and died. My mother alone,depressed
and with a child to feed; became homeless. I vaguely remember what
happened. We would walk in what seemed like circles. We'd go to soup
kitchens.
The depression ended, yet me and my mother were still down on
our luck. When I was 13 years old my mother was raped and killed.
I cried and wanted
to take my own life, but I couldn't. I continued doing all the things
my mother did for me by myself.
I was alone, homeless, and dirty. So
very dirty. By the age of 15 I was already spending my little amounts
money on beer. During that time I could have been described as a raging
alcoholic, a wild child.
homeless man, wondering in the streets. He is known to sleep in the cold
winter night, in a dark ally, near a shut down 7-11.
There is a girl
named Daphne, she is 12. She likes to take the path home that go past
the 7-11. She enjoys throwing rocks at it. Clearing her way.
This story tells
the account of the homeless man's last months, before his untimely
death. It has been re-typed and edited to fit the mind of educated
people.
Enjoy your reading.
September 2nd,
1973
I've been homeless for as long as I could remember. I recently
found out that my beloved father has died.
There is a
backstory to my life.
When I was born my mother and father were both
newlyweds. My mother married my father after she knew he was good to her
the only time he got angry is when she called him Patty. No one calls
my father Patty, his father called him that.
He deeply hated his
father.
My father thought it was unproper for the woman to provide for
the family so he was the only one who had a job. This was during The
Great Depression, so it was extremely rare to have a job.
A few months after
I was born, my father grew angry over his life, his job and that damn
depression. He went mad, insane actually. He never let anyone know what
he thought, of the world or anything for that matter. Then one night, my
father had heard that the factory's workers would be laid off. My
father couldn't take that, he couldn't take that he lost. Lost in luck. My father, after hearing the news; stormed out, he
drove for hours, eventually he stopped driving right when he saw a Bar.
He spend all the money in his pocket on Alcohol. My father didn't have
much money, so he was mostly sober. He went to his car and lit a
cigerette after losing a game of pool. One of the drunken men at the Bar
came out and yelled "Patrick! Patrick! Patty 'ol Patrick!".
At that moment my
father went crazy.
My father ran out of his car and strangled the
man. But it wasn't over there. He realized the man was still breathing,
just playing dead.
So my father lit him on fire because he basically
lied. The only other thing he hated more that his father was liars.
It was very
graphic.
Hours later, a knock came at the door. My mother got out of bed
eager to see her husband, but instead a police officer was at the front
steps. He told my mother what happened and her husband was under
custody. My mother cried, knowing her husband was crazy, it seemed like
he wanted to screw up. It seemed like he didn't want life, he didn't
want her.
My father went to prison and died. My mother alone,depressed
and with a child to feed; became homeless. I vaguely remember what
happened. We would walk in what seemed like circles. We'd go to soup
kitchens.
The depression ended, yet me and my mother were still down on
our luck. When I was 13 years old my mother was raped and killed.
I cried and wanted
to take my own life, but I couldn't. I continued doing all the things
my mother did for me by myself.
I was alone, homeless, and dirty. So
very dirty. By the age of 15 I was already spending my little amounts
money on beer. During that time I could have been described as a raging
alcoholic, a wild child.
Last edited by FlyingCupcake on February 12th 2010, 11:36 pm; edited 1 time in total
