Sundos Hejazi: One Man

January freeze. It is cold. Unnaturally cold. And yet, he sleeps outside. He has nothing by his side but a ratty blanket. No coat, no food, no choice. Under the bridge he goes. That spot calls his name. It has tried harder to know him than any of the presumptuous passersby. And yet, even through the pain, some part of him holds on to the chance of a “maybe.” Maybe he will be saved. But for now, one bridge, no home, one soul.

February chill. His bones lock, the only warmth between his joints is the comfort of mortality. He finds solace on the park bench. Hunger rumbles, creaking from the floorboards of his shrinking stomach. It reminds him of a luxury he once had. The growling of his insides used to be a sign to eat, to feast on fruit and meat and good fortune. Now it never leaves. The begging persists, pleading for any morsel of humanity, just to feed the dying embers of belief. But he succumbed to the hunger a long time ago, and perhaps that does more to satisfy it than food would. The welcomed visitor does not knock to announce its presence. It only raps its needy knuckles to remind him it controls his very being. But he still hopes. One bench, no home, one soul. 

March haze. Early spring mist. The grass is rising from its ashes, reviving itself with the fuel of the peeking sun and teasing rain. He does not know how that feels. The flowers of his youth shriveled up long ago, leaving only tree stumps and dried leaves, the very same ones he stretched his weak body on. The sun hurts his already burning eyes, and the rain does little for the dying spark deep within him, begging to be nurtured, to flourish. The ground beneath him mocks his inability to blossom as the buds of the earth sprouted, in plants and the little children running around on the grass. Dirt and rock compact themselves to make up his floors, matching the spring fog ceiling, all as the beady-eyed berries grow into the only luxury his humble abode can offer. He lives on the earth, but he lives off it too. One park, no home, one soul.

April showers. Rain drizzles. Drip drop. His fury drips, his shoulders drop. Anger at the world, all-consuming, swallowing his light with the same hunger that controls him. The abandoned vehicle beneath his weary bones sends chills down his weakened spine. As the universe reawakens from its hibernation, he wishes of having an endless sleep of his own, away from his only friend: the cold, cushionless backseat.  Spring is coming, spring is coming, the sky announces like it is a seller marketing newspapers. The same ones he sleeps on, wrinkling the dusty sheets of inked words with his restless body, leaving tattoos of every new date on his sweaty arms. The numbers pile, becoming a calendar, a countdown for how long he can keep fighting. One car, no home, one soul. 

May cowards. Full bloom, open air, yet he suffocates. He hides from those walking past his shameful existence as he questions how disrespectful his presence is. How dare he disrupt their pattern of easy sights. He is not easy to digest, only easy to forget. As he curls up at the foot of the old tower, he feels himself shrink with every set of eyes laid upon his balled-up figure. With every chime of the clock, he fantasizes about liberating himself, screaming from the rooftops, telling the world he does not regret disrupting their peace. But no one listens. If they dismiss his whimpers and screams, they will not hear him take back the shame that is as familiar to him as his last name. Even more familiar than the same rotten old shirt he’s lived in, day and night. Regardless of what they believe, at the end of the day, he still has to wear that shirt. One tower, no home, one soul.

June doom. The sunshine dares to reveal itself, just to spite his never ending darkness. The old brick wall that supports his slack body is dusty, coated in the ashes of foolish ambitions. Yet when the city closes its eyes, so does he. And as he drowns in the elusive gift of sleep, the moonlight masks his desolate insides and swallows his resentment. He dreams, against his will. In the darkest hours of nothingness, the stars guide his lost, wandering aspirations before they dwindle into pipe dreams. The consolation he finds in the night’s loneliness invites the shrinking desires to join together, hand in shaky hand. Slowly but surely, he dreams. Both when his eyes are shut, and even when they are not asleep. One wall, no home, one soul. 

July cries. People lay on grass and after they have absorbed the light, they have the luxury of going home. As he overlooks the beach from his tucked-away position under a mighty tree, he despises anyone with sand beneath their feet, water in their hair, food in their stomachs. His hair sticks to the back of his neck, creating an itch he will never fully scratch. Everything hurts. The steady roots of the unwavering trunk behind him anger him. In secret, hiding from eyes that will never meet his, he snaps branches off when envy consumes him. One tree, no home, one soul.

August sorrow. Hot and humid, merciless summer. Sun beating down on his scarred back, marked by the daggers of fate herself, stabbing while he looked forward at her deceiving light. He wishes for reprieve, but he does not know if that means keeping a pulse, or not having a next one. The thin cardboard beneath him feels like a board of screws, digging into his bones. He ripped up a box from the trash to make this bed that only lasts as long as the elements allow. Existing is a burden his worn-out shoulders can’t afford. There is a lot he cannot afford. Dignity, his next meal, pride, hope in the members of the human race. He once thought they were bound by the blood of a brother, but when he was the first to poke his finger on the needle of life, he learned it was the sacrificed blood of the believer. One box, no home, one soul.

September fog. Autumn sets in. Leaves fall. With every one dropping, he feels himself shrinking from within. He’s withering as they turn from green to yellow, nature’s traffic sign to remind him his inevitable red light is coming soon. Will he crash, flip, come to a halt, forget the brakes, take off his seatbelt, what will it be? Maybe he should have never been given a license in the first place. He sleeps on a heap of crinkling leaves, like yellowed pages telling his story one final time before the cold takes them as victims. When he wakes, the pile has flown away, leaving him on the unforgiving ground as a single leaf floats down gracefully and lands on him. One leaf, no home, one soul. 

October woe. Winter approaches carelessly, he observes with caution. The breeze cuts through calloused skin like a knife, the blade coming out of his spine. The tears he’s shed and the sweat he’s never stopped giving, combining to create the blood spilling down his frail silhouette, trapped in the fault lines of his skin, wrinkles and ugly marks from both the accidental and the intentional. He is next to the garbage, and even then he feels inferior. Equally disposable, but less than. The dark alleyway can never be more dangerous than his wandering mind. The little white lines and bottomless bottles are his lifejacket, even as he drowns in them. One alley, no home, one soul. 

November misery. His pain pours down from tears of clouds. He cannot escape the cruel punishment of living. Destiny will take him to every end of the earth, except the one where he is ended. The world does not want him out of his misery. He is its only entertainment as he awaits rain, opening his mouth wide, facing the sky, silently begging for water and relief, whatever that may be. The drip-drop of rain on pavement is his cushion. At night, when no one wakes, and the world rests, leaving behind its brutality for a few short hours, the dying traces of fight within him free themselves of the struggle to survive. One drop, no home, one soul.

December despair. December dies. Pure white snow, stained with his existence. Tainted by the disease of his life. But his body has given in. It can no longer fight the quiet, comforting end proposed by his shriveling mind. The hopeful finale creeps into him, seeping through the cracks. The blade will free him this time, instead of trapping him in its hilt. December frees.

One earth, no home.