Creative Writing: The Last Five Minutes

The Last Five Minutes

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Filthy water keeps falling onto my face, running in rivulets past my lips filling my mouth with the flavor of roofing tar, and the bitter tang of rust from a leaking gutter fill my mouth. It's vile but there's no energy left in my body to expunge the foul fluid. I couldn't even muster up the strength to glare at the man dressed in rags when he raided my pockets for anything of value thinking I was just another corpse of a junkie too far gone to have remembered their limits. Maybe I earned this, I committed the crime of being born too poor, born too stupid to become valuable, and too vile to be loved, and for that I could not hate the world for never opening its arms to welcome me when I could never belong.

I'm

I don't care anymore. I wanted to be too high to think, then maybe I could get some peace. Voices get louder, start screaming I can't think can't think stop it! be quiet!.....

A new scene unfurls in front of my eyes. This time I'm standing barefoot on a subway platform, naked toes curled around the edge. I'm in a different city hundreds of miles from my home, my pockets empty and my clothing unrecognizable. I wait for a while, never moving from my spot as sharply dressed men and women in silk and tweed, pass me by, never even glancing in my direction. I want someone to see me, to notice me.

Returning to my fading form I embrace the failure of my meager existence. My last 5 minutes were spent wallowing in my own filth reflecting on the complete lack of value my life had. My worldly possessions worth less than $10 and my very existence meaningless to be erased the moment I slip away. All aspects of who I was and who I am to be forgotten as though I was never alive in the first place. Nobody to remember me, even if I wanted to be