Ester asked why people are sad.
"That's simple," says the old man. "They are the prisoners of their personal history."
―Paulo Coelho,The Zahir
Prologue: No one
Jim rubbed his hands together in a vain attempt to get them warm. The gloves he'd managed to snag from an unsuspecting man earlier helped a bit but not by much. They were impossibly thin and had holes where the fingers went through. What was the point of these if they didn't even keep your fingers warm?
A strong gust of wind made him wrap the dirty, brown parka tighter around his body. He shuddered as the chill seemed to go right through his clothing and into the very marrow of his bones. At least it wasn't raining, he thought. Silver lining.
It was around midday now and the streets were still buzzing with activity despite the chilling weather. Meant that the snow would be coming soon. Jim hated the snow, the cold. Summer was easier, people were nicer in the summer and food was easier to come by. Speaking of food, Jim was starving he hadn't eaten yet, not that that was surprising. There were times when he'd had to go a day or two without food. Those were the worst. No one welcomed a beggar sitting outside their shop. "Dirty piece of trash," they'd call him. Sometimes he'd even get a beating for it. Pity and kindness was rare and even then he couldn't catch a break. Some shops wouldn't sell to a beggar, wouldn't even let him step inside. They didn't trust him, didn't trust him not to steal even when he held out the few precious coins he'd gathered throughout the day. Seems like not even his money was worth anything.
Jim hunched over and crossed his arms as tight as he could, trying to keep in the warmth. He trudged over to a little alcove in the wall and sat down, grateful for this little respite. It was still so cold. He sat with his knees against his chest and his head facing the bustling square. A woman carrying a bunch of plastic bags powerwalked across the square, the child being dragged along was crying. A man balancing a steaming mug of coffee and a stack of papers rushed past Jim's alcove and the strong smell of bitter coffee had his stomach grumbling. He pressed a hand against his stomach and winced. He'd get no food sitting here like this but he was in no particular hurry to get buffeted by the wind again. Maybe he'd be okay going a day without food but then what if it started raining tomorrow? Chances of him getting to eat tomorrow would be close to zero.
A bitter laugh escaped his lips. Being dead wouldn't be as painful as this. He'd thought about it many times. The sweet release. He wouldn't have to fight so hard to stay alive anymore. Wouldn't have to see people sneering down at him, spitting at his feet (on him on one occasion), shoving him into the ground like he was a broken ragdoll. Jim laughed again but it hurt this time, salty tears pricked his eyes and he hurriedly wiped them away. Head pressed against his knees he didn't notice the group of guys advancing towards his alcove.
"Hey, hey, hey. Look at this boys, I think we just found ourselves a little street rat." One of them said.
Jim lifted his head up recognising the owner of the voice and mentally cursed. The group surrounded him before he could even stand up. The guy who'd spoken earlier grinned at him.
"Whatchu doing here rat? Trash belong in the dumpster down there." He emphasised pointing off to the right where the local rubbish went to be incinerated or recycled.
"We don't like smelling your shit up here fucking beggar." Another said.
"Then go somewhere else." Jim replied, too exhausted to humour the man. He was so hungry.
"The fuck you say?" The man grabbed a fistful of Jim's dirt stained hair and wrenched him out of the confines of the alcove. The wind immediately hit him full force and he cried out in pain. The man gave some sort of signal to his friends and Jim was dragged off by the hair to an alleyway not far from the alcove. Jim scratched at his tormentor, tried to get the man to release him but the guy only laughed and someone kicked him in the stomach, told to stop being a bitch. He wrapped his arms around his torso to protect himself from anymore incoming blows.
No one came to help him.
No one cared.
No one even glanced their way. People pretended things like this didn't exist. People like him didn't exist in their world.
He was tossed into a garbage heap.
The first blow sent fire coursing through his leg.
Someone held his arms up so he couldn't even ease the pain of the beating.
"Fucking, filthy piece of shit. You waste of space should all go die in a hole!"
His body was growing numb. The pain was starting to disappear and with it the cruel voices too.
He didn't know how long it continued on.
"Oi, you recording this man? Haha, we should put it up online."
"Hey, use the bat. See if you can break his bones."
"Guys…I don't think—"
"Shut up man, no one's gonna bloody care. Go home if you wanna be a bitch about it."
The people started to blur into one giant black blob. This is nice, Jim thought. Maybe he would finally be able to sleep without the nightmares. He wouldn't mind it really. Sleeping forever. It sounded pretty damn romantic. He let the shadows grow, felt his eyelids grow heavy.
No one would care if he died.
Hell, he didn't even care.
He felt a shuffle of activity around him. Sounds drifted into his clouded mind.
Panicked voices?
Whose?
"Fuck—"
"—un. Go!"
Someone's hand on his face. Weird.
It didn't hurt like it was suppose to…
He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.