A Forgotten Tomorrow (7 page)

When I left the cruddy motel I was still hidden in the darkness of night, hidden from any passers-by who might stop and stare. Not now. The sun is slowly beginning to peak out over the cityscape, forcing a spotlight to beam down upon my face. I wish I was invisible, not existing to any of the people who are walking the streets this early in the morning. But I am not, and they continue to stare.

I feel like I’ve already walked ten miles, but it’s probably only been one. What’s worse than the distance is my lack of balance and the loose pieces of gravel digging into my
bare feet. Yeah, I had shoes, but I decided to leave them behind. The heel on one snapped, so what’s the use in trying to wear them? They would look even more hideous than they did before.

Ever since I woke up from the floor of that disgusting motel room, I’ve felt unsteady and disoriented. I took a quick shower but even that didn’t help. Well, it washed away some of the grime that was caked onto my body, just not the dried blood on my face. I tried to scrub, but it hurt too much. There was no way I wanted the cuts on my forehead to reopen, so I gently washed around them.

The street isn’t too busy this early in the morning, but on this side of town the rich folk come out to do their fitness routines. There is a park behind the boutiques, made for jogging, biking or rollerblading, so I try to stay out of the way as young men and women jog by dressed in designer workout clothing, iPods attached to their arms. It doesn’t seem to work, though – I can feel their eyes on me, staring at me. Just because
they have a perfect life full of riches, why do they have to look at me that way? Idiots.

With my head in a daze it’s hard, but I try to concentrate, focusing on the ground as I walk. I feel like I might fall over at any moment, swaying from side to side as if I were a drunk. I start to perspire and my tattered clothes begin to cling to my body. I feel like I could vomit. I have a long way to go, though, walking next to these damn boutiques. I’m sure the owners won’t let me in to use the restrooms. My appearance alone is enough to isolate me from what most people call a ‘normal’ world.

Maybe that’s what I need – a fix. I have enough left in my bag for a handful of lines and it could only make me feel better, right? It has to, because right now I feel like I could fall over and die. But where? There isn’t anywhere for me to go. I have to keep moving forward, out of this place, away from the eyes of these have-it-all,
good-for-nothing
rich people.

In front of the fine jewelry store I stumble and fall to the ground. My hands break my fall, but I land on broken glass. I try to hold it in, but I can’t.

“Dammit!” I scream. I look at the palm of my hand and a tiny piece of glass is sticking out of my skin. I sit on the tarmac and tremble as I try to pull out the glass. My hands hurt so badly that I don’t pay any attention to the young woman approaching. “Shit!” I yell, pulling out as much of the glass as I can.

“Are you okay?” the woman asks. She startles me.

“I’m fine,” I respond, standing up and distancing myself from her.

I try to walk away from her, but she grabs my arm.

“Are you okay sweetie? Do you need help?”

“Get off of me!” I yell. She does.

She might have been trying to help, but she didn’t have to grab me. Besides, she probably just wanted to make a good impression to all the other rich idiots out here watching. That’s right, watching me. I hate that. I hate them. I wish they would all go away.

I feel it now. My anxiety is rising and I feel angry. My stomach hurts even worse than it did before. I can’t hold it in and vomit escapes my mouth. I try to push it back in, but it only seeps through my fingers, landing on my already disgusting shirt. Now there are even more eyes staring at me, more comments from those passing. What is their problem?

“What the hell are all of you looking at?” I yell, circling, looking at every one of them. “I don’t feel good, what’s the big deal? Mind your own business, you rich idiots!”

I try to run, stumbling yet managing to stay on my feet. I don’t know where I am going exactly, because I’m not so sure where I am or which route to take to get back to
my bridge. Screw it, though. I just need to get out of here.

Tears fall, even when it’s anger that is brewing inside me. I’m angry at myself, at these streets – but most of all, at Elijah. Why did he have to go? Why did he have to be so stupid? He could’ve been great as a normal person, having a normal life. Too late now. He’s gone.

I don’t want to, but I see his face flashing before my eyes. He’s not handsome anymore, though – he is covered in blood. He wants me to help him, but it’s too late.

“Get out of my head!” I yell.

I don’t want to see him like that. I want to remember how he used to be, not how he was after what they did to him. Not like that. I can’t push him away; he is still there staring at me, trying to smile as blood drips off his forehead like sweat. Please let me forget. But I can’t forget, and maybe that’s because I don’t deserve to forget.

The afternoon had been horrible that day, when it all went wrong. It was freezing cold outside and pouring with rain. I remember feeling miserable the entire day, even before I met Elijah. I didn’t want to do anything other than sleep or get high.

After work, I’d immediately gone back to my bridge to rest. I was hungry, but didn’t care about food – I was too tired. I also wanted to take in my last line before sleeping and seeing Elijah. I knew he was going to be giving me a brand new bag, so one line would surely hold me over until then.

There was nothing out of the ordinary about that morning. It was quiet, boring and monotonous. I didn’t expect anything more of the afternoon, even though Elijah and I were going to hang out. I thought it was going to be just the same as it always was. I was wrong – dead wrong.

Anyway, I met Elijah at a sandwich shop near Benz Street around noon. I was
excited to see him. With all that was going on in his life we didn’t get to see each other so often now. When we did, it was only for thirty minutes here or there, so not nearly enough time to progress our relationship. I’d thought about it for days, and then finally I’d decided that it was going to be today day when I asked. I had to know if he wanted us to be a couple. I hoped he would.

We spent nearly an hour in the shop that day, eating, talking and joking around. It felt good to hear his voice, his laugh and all about his work with Jon. He still felt confident, having no worries when it came to how he handled his business.

Towards the end of our lunch I mentioned my feelings to him. I felt, like, self-conscious for a minute, stuttering and fumbling over my words, but it all turned out okay.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked before we stood up to leave.

“Sure, Van, what’s up?”

I felt my face turn red. Suddenly I was shy – something I never usually was around Elijah.

“Um, I don’t know,” I giggled, “I guess I was just wondering if maybe, uh–”

“Yes,” he said before I could even finish. He laughed, and then grabbed my hand. “You don’t have to say anymore. I know,” he smiled.

“Do ya?” I managed to say.

“You know I been all about you, Van, for a while.”

I didn’t respond, just smiled back at him as he rubbed my hand with his finger. I felt butterflies in my stomach and wanted to kiss him. I wanted to tell him everything I was feeling, but thought it was best to leave it at that moment. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I’d told him that I loved him.

Ten minutes later, that beautiful moment between us was shattered into pieces.

Once we left the shop we walked together to the park, where we were going to go our separate ways. On the way, we spoke about little things, nothing huge – just our lives and where we wanted to go. He had big plans; I wanted eventually to escape my life and become a little more normal.

I felt bad when he handed me the bag of meth. I had mixed feelings. I didn’t want to just take it from him, but I needed it. He assured me that no one was noticing the amounts he was taking for his pleasure. We both agreed that after that bag was gone, we would stop using.

Anyway, the street was silent and appeared to be abandoned. There was no one outside on that block, not even kids playing on their bikes. Granted, it was the ghetto area, but it was too quiet, even for there. Chills went down my spine as our steps echoed against the exterior of the residential homes.

The chills I was feeling were a sign that I shouldn’t have ignored. Within seconds
Elijah was laying on the cobblestone street screaming in pain. A group of four boys, huge boys, gathered around him and set about beating him with chains and a bat. As they took turns striking his body, I tried to get them to stop – but they pushed me away every time, threatening me with the bat.

Suddenly, Elijah’s screams stopped. He lay there, motionless, with blood oozing from his head. I was frozen and couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream either. I was too scared. Why would they do that? Why? I wanted to grab Elijah and pull him out of the street, kiss his forehead – but I couldn’t. They were still standing there.

One of the guys was looking at me, pointing his blood-drenched bat in my direction.

“You better get lost, trick,” he announced, walking towards me and threatening that I would be next.

I tried to run, turning my back on my best friend. As I ran off I heard one last smash against his body.

“That’s from Jon. Never forget it, punk!”

I started to cry immediately. Without even thinking twice, I knew those kids had just beaten Elijah to death. I stopped running but didn’t dare turn around, even though I badly wanted to.

If I’d walked up to Elijah at that very moment, I would have been dead too.

What if he wasn’t dead when they were finished with him? I left him there all alone, taking a bath in his own blood…

This is why his vision haunts me.

I wake up with the stench of vomit in my nostrils, in an alleyway near one of the fancy boutiques. I’m not really sure how I got here, I can’t remember. But here I am, leaning against a brick wall, still shaking uncontrollably. My eyes are almost swollen shut from all the crying and my throat hurts. I’m a bloody mess, but I don’t really care.

I know I made a fool of myself earlier, walking down the street next to those rich people, but it’s like I can’t control myself anymore. Unless I’m high. That is what I need to do right now, take in a few lines.
I need to get out of this rut and I need to stop thinking about Elijah. I can still see his face, his lips motioning silently for help. Dammit.

I wouldn’t normally pull out a bag and sniff a line or two in plain daylight, especially on this side of town – but I need it. Two or three lines won’t hurt, and I will be on my way. I can’t rest here. I will rest when I get back to my spot by Flannigan’s.

I sit back for a few moments, waiting for the feeling to hit and rush through my body. I know it’s only temporary, but the blissful numbing sensation is what I need right now – and to get out of this uppity neighborhood, away from the ridiculing eyes.

A half-hour has passed and I’m still walking – but I’m close to home. I decided to walk behind the buildings, instead of on the sidewalk next to all the morning shoppers. It’s better this way.

The block I am passing now is still considered to be part of the wealthy area. Even the backs of the boutiques are fancy – the dumpsters are clean, and there isn’t any trash to be seen anywhere. It’s spotless. The workers have sitting areas in the back, with fancy chairs and tables for them to sit at on their lunch breaks.

The transition between the rich side of town and the poor is quite funny. In front of me, within only a few feet, the change is apparent. Trash is overflowing from the dumpsters and the area is not even slightly clean or spotless. Often enough, teenagers from this area hang out behind the stores at night, drinking and smoking marijuana. From the looks of things I’m guessing that they throw out their empty malt liquor bottles when they are finished – but not in the trash. There is broken glass all over the tarmac.

It’s odd; my stomach is growling and I know that I’m hungry, but I don’t feel like
eating. I feel sick, and my perspiration is only getting worse now that my buzz has nearly worn off. Inside I am trembling, for whatever reason; I could jump out of my own skin. I need more. I need a few more lines to carry me.

Benz Street is a few blocks away, so I’m nearly there. I can’t wait until then, though. There is a little park, although it’s normally gang-infested, just another block up. There isn’t any playground equipment or anything, just a few picnic tables. If it’s not occupied by anyone, especially Jon’s boys, I will sit there for a few minutes and get my fix.

Luckily, the park is abandoned at this hour. Everyone is probably still asleep, hung over from a night of drugging and partying. There is a table underneath a lone tree, which will be the perfect spot for me. It will keep me hidden from anyone who might pass by.

My bag is nearly empty. I might as well finish it off while I’m here. Maybe my high will last a little longer.

The wooden table is completely worn out and infested with termites. It doesn’t matter, though. The flat surface will make it easier to take in a few lines.

I was going to be careful about it, make sure not to drop any of it onto the ground – but screw it. I pour the remaining amount into the palm of my hand, losing only a tiny bit to the mud-covered floor. With my fingers, I strategically separate the powder into six lines. There is more left than I thought. That will surely prolong my high.

Within thirty seconds I take in all six lines, leaving only a little residue on the table. I cover my face with my trembling hands and rest my elbows on the table, until I feel the drug rushing through my body.

This time it’s different. Inside I feel more relaxed, but my body is still shaking,
trembling. If I don’t lie down on the table for a moment I might fall to the ground. I can’t stand up, and my eyes are twitching uncontrollably.

I’ve lost all control. I can feel myself lying here, but cannot move.

I fall deep into a dream-like state. I can’t fight it, even though I try. And it’s like I’m taken somewhere else, somewhere that is not here, not in this park.

Wherever I am, this place has a musty smell to it, along with the scent of cigar smoke and mothballs. The lighting is dim, but I manage to see three large shadows against the wood-panelled wall. The men aren’t in the room with me, though – I don’t think. They are cackling with one another in the adjoining room, hacking and coughing fit to bring up a lung.

I can’t make out what they are saying and don’t want to find out either – what if they don’t know I’m here?

Something, maybe dust, flies into my nose without warning, bringing forth a loud sneeze. I cover my mouth, trying to force back another that is on its way. It’s too late. The large men must have already heard me, because their cackling abruptly stops. There is silence.

I realise that I’m backed into a corner. I’ve been here the entire time, not realising it until now. My arms are tied behind my back and my cry is muffled by a gag that’s in my mouth. What’s going on? Oh my God! Here they come.

The man that appears in front of my face is very unclean and extremely large. His tank top looks ten years old. At one point it was probably white, but not anymore. It’s covered with stains, most likely because of his nasty perspiration – he reeks of body odor. His long, tangled beard covers most of his mouth, but when he smiles I notice that he is missing a lot of his teeth. Those that remain appear to be rotted, judging by his breath, which smells like halitosis.

His long, chubby arms reach down towards my face. What is he doing? I can’t move. I can’t scream. Leave me alone! I feel his grip on my shoulder. I try to shrug him away, but cannot move…

I convulse, shake and vomit uncontrollably. I don’t think I’m dreaming any more, but still cannot move. My eyes are fluttering. I can’t see anything of my surroundings, but briefly I notice a man standing above me.

He looks exactly like the man I just saw in my dream – with no teeth. He appears to be upset. Why does he keep shaking me?

“Hang on. I’m gonna call an ambulance,” he says.

I can barely understand what he’s saying. Everything is muffled and unclear.

I don’t want an ambulance. Why would he be doing that? I’m okay. I’m just resting for a minute, dude…

Everything is black. My body is convulsing, yet I feel completely numb. There is silence. What’s happening?