By now the light from the sun is painting a picture-perfect sunset across the sky. I take a deep breath of clean, untainted air and continue my sweep. Everyone else begins to bark commands at one another and starts assembling the tents. I am instructed to look for firewood and reluctantly set out gathering small twigs and branches to serve as kindling.

Gathering bits and pieces of wood, no one notices me as I slip away into the forest. The trees act as a natural barrier between the distant voices of my company and I. Now left alone to my thoughts and the whistling quiet of the forest, I continue my sojourn. Beneath my feet the ground changes from the stiff hardness of dirt to a squishy, softer muck. Schlicp, schlicp go my boots and I realize that in my drift I have happened upon a tarn of water.

The lake is big and bottomless. Or so it seems. The dim light of the setting sun casts an unnatural glow across the lustrous top of the lake. The deep satin blue water soothes and seduces me. It calls out and I draw nearer, my body relaxing from all the strain taken throughout the work week.

Gazing into the clear water, the lake’s movement flows back and forth, caught in an endless exotic dance inviting me to watch. Peer closer. Peer into the swirling waters, they taunt, and perhaps you too can see into the past, future, and present. Feeling hypnotized by the lake, I wander about locating a place to root myself in trance. Another deep breath taken. From the reaction of my body towards the lake, I get the impression that this is what has drawn me into this weekend escapade; although it was my friend Becky who really talked me into it.

“It’s good for the soul,” she said. “It’ll help you relax and get away from all the stress at work.”

Nearing the shore my shoes are unceremoniously tossed off exposing my feet to the sandpapery feel of the ground beneath. Walking along the shoreline, my feet are massaged by the soft and rough sand, relieving them of all the tension that was twisted into them during the long and hard hike to the haven.

Collapsing, I look at the sky. The first evening stars make their nightly appearance and I can faintly recognize some of the constellations. A strong sense of serenity and peace enters my body, hugging it in a blanket of warmth. Strange, I feel as if I’ve been here before. Without warning, shapes begin to surface from the deep blue mirror and I return my sight back to the water.

Two large objects begin to swim parallel to the water’s surface and because of the evening light I can pass no judgment as to what these shapes really are. But they have sparked my curiosity and have taken hold of my imagination. My companions are long, about six feet in length, and take on an almost fishy appearance. But their skin is smooth!

That can’t be, my mind screams. There are no fish in freshwater lakes that big.

The strong smell of burning wood fills the air, and my stomach softly rumbles.

Yet, I am in no hurry to return to the campsite. Determined to find out what lurks beneath the water’s surface, I stay firmly planted at this spot. My eyes burn into the lake, intent on knowing what these images, playing against the water’s screen, are.

My body begins to sway with the waves. Moving closer to the shore’s edge I dangle my feet into the cool, silky water. The translucent form has reached out and in one swoop bound me in a inviting grasp. Voices now call out to me from the small glow of the campsite, off in the distance. I’m not paying them any attention. This is where I belong now. Looking away towards the glow I feel a light tug on my ankle from the water. An invitation, really, begging me to join with its freedom– deep into the basin of the Earth. The shapes in the water also speak out to me in the same way.

Aeons of secrets flood into my mind from locked chambers deeply embedded in the dark corners of my brain. There is now a choice to be made. One path cast in the light with familiar voices and the other cast in the shadows of the water and the dark unknown.

Shedding my unwanted clothes I dive. The water’s delicate-touch fills every pore of my body, caressing my skin like a lover longing for the first embrace. Kicking out with two powerful fins my slender bottlenose acts compass to guide me towards my home hidden deep within the water. Never again will my body feel the touch of the sun, it’s unwanted kiss fades into the night as the stars twinkle high above. All my worries pass out from me, forgotten into the water. My job, friends lost behind me huddled around the campfire all depart from my mind as the memories from a primal past surface and consume me.

The two figures shimmy towards my changed form, squeaking in delight, as I return back to my pod having regained my true sense of identity.

The old lady drew near, stopping by each trash can to find something of value Jordan stepped out towards her. Her movements seemed almost ritualized in the pale glow of the night.

“Hey, lady, isn’t it time you went home. Ya know this area of town isn’t all that keen towards folk like you.”

Slowly the woman turned around to face him. Jordan could see that her face was young and wrinkled and her teeth appeared nonexistent in the moonlit sky. Her hair was long and tangled, almost in the fashion of punks he hung around with.

“I know young man, but ever since my husband died and I lost my social security pension, these streets are my home. To make my living I have had to resort to digging around in the bins to find what I like to call Old Forgottens’. ‘Cuz these are treasures, not worth anything to anyone else but have lots of value to me.”

It was this last line that caught Jordan by surprise. All his waking life he felt like the old woman’s “old Forgottens,” discarded by people, left to fend for himself. Only after his reawakening did he feel he fit in with the crowd.

“Don’t you have any family to go to? Savings accounts to draw money from. Anything?” He questioned, his cold stone heart going out to the woman.

“No, ” she began, sitting down on the dirty sidewalk. “That was all spent trying to keep my husband and myself out of debt, and when he died the rest went to paying off the funeral expenses. Now its just me and ol’ Nellie here, my trusty collection wagon.”

When she talked, Jordan saw the lifetime of experience and hardship pouring from her fawn colored eyes. She has had a hard life, he thought feeling something that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Sadness. Sadness for all the people that were left behind by the great United States of fucking America. Sadness, for all the people like her, having to defend their livelihood against creeps like him. People wanting something from them.

“Ma’am, ” he began, “isn’t there something I could do to help you out?”

She glared at him wondering if she could take his offer seriously or not. Then she arose, shaking off all the dirt from her tattered dress.

“Child,”she said,” there ain’t nothing you could do to help me. I am too old and too tired to continue on like this. It’s enough to wonder if the good lord has forsaken me and refuses to end the suffering that I’ve had to live with for the past few years. But unless you can put in a good word to the Lord to help me out then I guess there’s nothing you can really do to help me.”

Standing up, Jordan grinned a grin so fiendishly that the hair (or what was left of it) on the arms of the bag woman stood on end.

“Lady,” he called, “this is your lucky day. For I am an angel of your God and he has asked me to take you away from all of this.”

Then as laughter poured out of his mouth, he bared his fangs toward his dumbstruck prey. Then reaching out both of his arms he cradled the old woman in his arms. All forgiveness left his body as he bit down and drained the life from her body. Looking down at her dead corpse once more, he noticed that the woman did not appear scared but relieved that the suffering had ended.

As he turned to make sure that she was comfortable in her final resting area Jordan thought to himself, Just another nameless victim, wanting the escape that only death can provide.

This is what a lit degree gets you- a shitty job and a four-pack-a day habit. It seems like coughing is the only thing I’ve accomplished since graduation. If I’d known what the damn things would do to me, I’d have chosen another vice! I’ve seen all my dreams and aspirations left in the dust. Just wanted a good, reliable job that kept me out of bankruptcy. Twenty years and half a lifetime’s worth of coughing, here I am, the maintenance supervisor for a rundown apartment complex.

Supervising this place means you’ve gotta be there to help tenants twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Each and every tenant has a complaint about their residence. For example, the lady in apartment 410 complains about a problem with the heater. This means going into the basement. I hate going down there. It’s dark and damp, with unidentifiable noises calling out from everywhere. Someone would think I’ve watched too many horror movies as a kid. Basements give me the creeps. I avoid going down into them at all costs. But, after fifty or so complaints and a threat to call the city, I decided to check it out.

With toolbox in hand, I take a deep breath and languidly venture down into uncharted territory. The flashlight provides me with little light so anything to be seen has to be close. Never did it occur to me that lightbulbs would make a good investment.

The storage area lays in disarray. All I can see is the chaotic pattern of boxes, varying in size and shape, along with tattered furniture covered in dustbags. Each item is carefully labeled with the tenant’s name and its memory laden contents. Faceted into each wall are three small windows covered with sheets. What little light does enter the room covers everything with an unnatural glow. Overhead, the labyrinth of pipework, copper and pvc, networks across the ceiling like cobwebs created by spiders.

I inhale a deep breath of musty, antiquidated air and begin to cough. You’d think the doctors and scientists would have come up with a cure by now. Ah, there it is, the criminal in question. I put the toolbox down and quickly give the patient a once over. Everything seems to be in working order. I don’t get it, what’s wrong?

CRASH

The noise hits me sending a flashback of memories through my mind. All the horror shows I’ve ever seen, from Jason to Michael, come flooding into my hyperactive imagination. Slowly I turn my body scanning the room. The urge to bolt from the basement screams from every inch of my body. Curiosity has gotten the better of me. I have to find the cause of the noise.

That’s when I see her. Tucked away behind storage boxes hiding in a niche in the wall, next to some boxes. Scared her out of hiding. Scared me. I have to struggle to keep from choking on the phlegm arising into my throat. What transpired here during these few precious moments are enough to last me through the rest of my life. Her lessons (if one can call them lessons- taught by a child so young) are etched into my memories never to be forgotten. A student trying to survive in the school of hardknocks.

I point the flashlight beam directly into her face.

“What in the fuck are you doing down here?” I exclaim. “This is no place for a child to be playing around. There’s a lot of dangerous things down here. You could get hurt.”

Nothing. Only two blank eyes staring back at my face.

“Where are your parents,” I continue, choking back another round of phlegm.

Looking away from my eyes, she whispers, “It’s not my fault. Daddy never wanted me and Mommy got beat up by a badman in funny clothes, and I don’t want anyone else to take care of me.”

My God, I say under my breath, and so young.

After a long and awkward pause, I venture, “What do you mean a badman?”

“The badman my Mommy works for. He beats her whenever she don’t give him enough money. I got scared and left. She never notices me anyway.”

I throw out a couple more questions, “What’s your name, kid? Where do you live?”

“My name’s Katryn, and I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

Smart kid, I think and continue, “Well, you’re going to have to talk to me. Especially if you want my help. Now…”

“I don’t need your help,” she says defiantly. “This is my home now. I am never really alone. I’ve got Sam and my dreams, they keep me company. Nobody else wants me.”

As she spoke I caught a flicker of sadness pass in her eyes. She’s afraid of living like this, in the streets. She misses her parents, and wants to go home. Pride and fear keep her from coming out. She doesn’t trust me.

“Don’t you miss your Mommy?”

Pause.

“Nobody wants me,” she whispers again, struggling to hide the tears. “Once the police found me and tried to put me away but I stopped them. They won’t bother me or Sam anymore. This is my home.”

I shake my head at the mention of this being her home. This isn’t any place for a child to grow up. Frustrated, not knowing what to say next, I look at her. Cutest little thing. From the dim light, I can tell she is no older than twelve or thirteen. It’s hard to believe that one so young falls to the denizens of the street.

Dark brown eyes sadly peer out through shaggy, unkempt raven black hair which hangs in her face like heavy leaves clinging to a weeping willow. Her thin, frail frame shows the bones through her tattered and worn clothes. Clothes so old that the colors which once adorned them have almost been cried out. She doesn’t wear shoes.

How long has she been away from her home? I grow angry. How can our society allow this to happen. To anyone. This could’ve easily been me. I am torn between offering to help her get away from all this and leaving her there to fend for herself. Nobody wants their life to be like this. But, who wants to help them? No one wants to take on the responsibility for people like her. If the situation were reverse, would someone do the same for me?

She owns few possessions. A faded yellow blanket (supplied with holes eaten by rats) is her only protection from the harsh cold. The blanket is carefully laid in a heap on the concrete carpet. Her most treasured prize of all is a love-worn brown teddy bear. A bear without its button eyes is her sole companion. Altogether an image not too pleasing to the eye.

Remembering that I placed a sandwich in my toolbox, I take it out and offer it to her. Pausing at the gesture, not knowing whether to trust me or not, she slowly reaches out to take the plastic-wrapped sandwich. Our hands touch and in that brief instant our lives joined.

Then she says something that I will never forget, “I can see death on you. It stains your colors.”

Slightly taken back, and a little surprised I reply, “What did you say?”

“The death, your cough. You should be more careful of what you put inside you.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Was it a joke? Some childish vision, dreamt up by this homeless vagabond. It makes me uneasy. She makes me uneasy. She’s not natural, my gut screams to me. I need to get away.

“Uh… sure Katryn. Whatever you say. Hey look here’s twenty bucks. I know it’s not a whole lot, but it’s all I’ve got. Why don’t you go and get a decent meal, maybe go to a shelter. Living down here isn’t the greatest of places.”

She declined to accept the money. The desire to survive on her own conflicts with the need for help. Shrugging, I put the money back. Still wish she would have taken it. It’s the least I could do to help, without getting in too deep. I take one last look at her before heading back up into reality’s playground.

Later on, I go back downstairs, just to check up on her. Nothing. Maybe she found her way out. Maybe my talking with her helped her to escape the horrors of life in the gutter. She taught me a lot about life in that moment we spent together. Unspoken words can mean a lot to one who’s down and out. Companionship and comfort is denied and alien to them, and must be offered on our behalf. It will always be her eyes, silent and sad, filled with expression, constantly wandering- looking for escape, that I will always remember. She gave me something that no money could ever buy.

Then I realized I hadn’t coughed in several hours.