“The Wrong Path”

“When you’re far down the wrong path and don’t believe you can turn around, you might meet someone’s right path who’ll help you change your direction.” 

      “Move it,” A businessman grumbled spitefully, shouldering his way across the pavement without haste. 

      The other man scowled with evident hatred, feeling the eyes of numerous p*censored*ers fall upon him, and took a seat upon the cold stone steps.  His worn clothing, which he outgrew what seemed like forever ago, tightened against his skin uncomfortably as he shifted.  With a small grunt, he dismissed his thoughts of the snotty businessman and placed his usual chocolate tin without any contents occupying it in front of his feet.  If he possessed any luck that day, he’d receive enough to purchase dinner.  However, if luck was extra kind, perhaps another bottle of his favorite alcohol or rum was in reach. 

      “Here,” A p*censored*ing lady whispered, placing a few coins in the tin, “Nobody should starve.” 

      As she hurried away, probably to a job or some other, the homeless man glanced down at the tin with mild excitement.  His eyes were most definitely not in the best condition, but he counted two dimes and a quarter with ease.  If he had any thankfulness, it evaporated entirely now.  A mere forty five cents would get him nowhere.  He glowered at the rushing people, imagining each one of them snickering at his horrible luck and condition.  After all, he was a mere homeless person on the streets without any real way of living, without a job, and without a purpose. 

      “Why give anything if you know it will only taunt?” Nobody cast him more than an annoyed glance as he shrieked into the crowd at the lady who was already long gone. 

      Carrying a small child, someone shot him an enraged glare, “Get a job, then!  Don’t be annoying.  Work for yourself.” The child started to cry, and the pair left on their way. 

      Like with the woman, the homeless man leapt up, shouting without any control.  A string of profanities streamed from his mouth, causing some people to curse back while others shook their heads and covered their children’s ears, ushering them along.  Many people were commuting to jobs where they would receive payment for their labor and spend it on what they wanted.  Those people had a distinct reason and purpose- to earn money for themselves and their families.  A shadow fell upon his tired face, and a never-forgotten memory skimmed through his mind.  His family abandoned him, and he couldn’t even support himself.  What a lazy beast he always was!  Reality was always rearing its ugly head into his face.  He sighed and something twitched in the recesses of his memory.  All of which he could have held in his hands taunted him; he could’ve grown up to be a normal, happy, working person.  A sigh breezed past his cracked lips as he replayed his life story- a movie that wasn’t really a movie.

---

      “Why can’t you be more like your sister?” A woman with curly brown hair showing obvious signs of age cradled his face in her hands after saying the well-known question, “I know you have to potential to do it.”

      The child glowered at his sister, and then turned the glare onto his mother, spitting in outrage, “I DO try.  Is me trying not good enough for you?”

      “You know that’s not-” her voice was cut off as the boy tore his face away from her tender hands.

      “It is,” The way he spoke expressed his rejection, and that everything he believed was true…all of it.

      Whimpering slightly, his sister stroked the top of his head, “Stop, please.  You know how much we love you and only want to help you strive to a better level.”

      “No, you don’t,” He turned away from them, refusing to make eye contact. “Not even Daddy does.  He only works, eats, dinner, and works some more.  When he doesn’t, he beats me and you never stand up!  You’re all filthy liars.”

      Instead of words, a choked noise of emotional pain gurgled from the older woman’s mouth.  Her hands, which previously cradled his smooth face, dropped to her sides, and her composure collapsed.  Without another word, she shakily stood up and left, a door slam following seconds after.  The room was silent for a few seconds until the sister took a threatening step towards him, a murderous glare in her hazel eyes.  Her rage was obvious- it didn’t take any thought to realize that.

      “Why do you always enjoy tormenting them?” she snapped, clenching and unclenching her fists, “What kind of son would do that?”

      His gaze was cold, voice tainted by a chilling tone of uncaring, “Because it’s not like anyone cares.  Why should I?  As you said, I already went too far off the road.  Why waste time trying to fix something beyond repair?”

      Her angry stare faltered, and she stared at him wordlessly.  For a moment, she opened her mouth to deny it, but couldn’t find her voice.  Then, like her mother, she drifted out of the room.  At the door, she paused, and laid her hand on the knob.  It seemed as if she was contemplating something.  Her eyes closed, remaining as so for a few seconds, until she reopened them, staring straight at him.

      “Idiot,” she mumbled, and slammed the door shut behind her.

      He stared at the closed door calmly, and finally flopped onto the couch.  Though he appeared horribly unaffected, his tormented feelings simmered sinisterly beneath his skin, threatening to surface.  The TV flickered on, and his glazed eyes watched it dully, trying to forget all his family issues and his lack of intelligence.  In reality, there was little escape from the truth.
 

      15 years later and still hopeless.  The man licked a newly fallen raindrop from the side of lip as he continued remembering.  A grunt heaved through his body, and he stood up, tight clothing refusing to stretch.  With a light sigh of defeat, the man gazed skywards into the grey rain clouds.  They continued their slow process, beginning to unleash their wrath, the drumming becoming even faster.  Thunder boomed like a distant war horn, vibrant lightning ensued, and the rain pelted down on him mercilessly.  He gathered up his belongings, staring at the crowd of rushing people forlornly. 

      For the first time, the man actually began to feel the real pain of emotional torment that arrived with wrong decisions.  The realization of how alone he was reiterated itself within his mind.  Perhaps he could have been a famous song writer- anyone could, if they put their heart into it.  It’s too late, he thought miserably, and sighed, pushing open the door to McDonalds.  The stares of numerous customers slammed into him the moment he graced the fast food stop with his grubby presence.

      “Don’t look him in the eye,” A mother whispered to her daughter, wrapping an arm around her child and drawing her closer.

      The little girl stared at the man with wide eyes and swiftly averted her gaze, “Yes, momma.”

      Attempting to ignore them, the man silently stepped into place on the line.  While he waited, the man browsed over the lit up menu overhead.  He’d have to choose the cheapest one in order to preserve the precious and meager dollars in his coat pocket.  A frown appeared- he’d spend whatever he’d save on alcohol…which obviously wasn’t the right thing to do.  You can’t always turn around and walk back on the path of wrongdoings, he blinked and sighed, feeling lost. His sister had always loved the quote “No matter how far you are down the wrong path, you can always turn around.”  It wasn’t true in his case.  Alcohol addiction entangled him in a vise-like grip, and he refused to put any effort into breaking free from its fatal grasp.  Perhaps if he listened to her explanations years ago, he could have been spared from the agonizing fate of being an alcoholic. 

      “What’s wrong with you?” Her voice didn’t’ contain rage at all, but more of disbelief and confusion.

      The teenager, from his position on the couch, threw his head against the wall, smacking it with a loud and painful smack, “Nuthin’,” he mumbled.

      “You drank…” It wasn’t like a question begging for the truth, but rather a statement that was true no matter how much one twisted the words.

      “I did.”

      He had made no attempt to cover up his crime.  Instead, he, proudly, explained all he had done when he skipped school that Thursday on a ‘peaceful outing with his friends’.  The horrified look on her face was burned into his mind forever, as were the outraged shouts and slaps from his father, and the heartbroken reprimands from his mother.  All of them obviously disapproved of his actions…but maybe it was their own disapproval that caused him to do what he did…to be a rebel.

      “What compelled you to do such a thing?” His sister’s lower lip quivered, hand shaking just as much, “Why would you?” 
 
 The door slammed open, and their mother stormed in.  Unlike her usual calm and collected composure, she truly looked angry, hair falling in messy locks around her square face.  Sure, they had been disappointed and reprimanded, but she had never looked as fierce as that.  He had shrunk back slightly in shock, as did his sister, but she had no reason to as she hadn’t done any wrongs.  In one moment, she seemed to have lost her temper that she wasn’t known to have.

      A hand struck his face sharply and without any warning, “Are you really my son?  Are you?  Are you?” She repeated it over and over again, and though she only slapped him once, every word felt like she had done word.

      “Maybe I’m not.”

      She stopped her ravings and stood up straight, “We need a serious talk…and I don’t care if you don’t care, but as a mother, I won’t leave you alone.”

      While his sister fled the room, probably to alert their father of the oncoming argument and growing tension, an awkward silence spread between parent and child like a cold shadow.  The slap still stung, and he lifted a hand to touch the victimized skin.  Surprisingly, his eyes were dull, devoid of emotions, and his gaze was as sharp as the point of a war arrow.  His mother’s breathing slowly returned to its normal pace.  For a brief moment, he pondered leaving the house and never having to suffer at the hands of his parents again.  According to their behavior, he wouldn’t be missed at all if he made that choice.

      “You know,” he said robotically, “I think you’re lying again.”

      She began to intertwine her fingers nervously, “Why do you keep thinking these dreadful notions?”

      “A slap doesn’t symbolize any love.”

      Without another word, he briskly left the room of icy emotions. Before he could swagger down the hallway and out the house door, a strong hand grasped his shoulder.  It didn’t hold any edge of caution or gentleness for fear of hurting, but rather gripped tightly without a care of causing pain.  The moment the fingers came in contact with him, he detected the near future in a brief flash.  Cringing, he braced himself against the fierce clubs that made their way into the side of his head.

      “Stop,” Shrill, he desperately tried to roll out from under the precise blows, “You don’t have to-”

      Voice hoarse but intertwined with blind rage, his father rose up higher with fists in the air, “You don’t have to obey us when we ask you to try, so why should I?  Why should I?” The fists slammed into his sides, knocking the wind out of his overworked lungs.

      He couldn’t say anymore as there was no chance to speak.  For a second, his father dropped his hands, panting like an exhausted dog.  The moment the sight of his fat hands left his sight, he rolled over and mad dashed towards the door- towards freedom.  Being only a young teenager, his father held the potential to catch him in a few effortless strides. Shock coursed through the boy as realized downed on him.

      “He’s not chasing after me,” Dragging a dirty hand across his check, he wiped the blood off his face and mumbled something under his breath.

      It was obvious he’d have to return home eventually.  His father, usually drunk in the evenings, probably wouldn’t beat him again anyways, and there wouldn’t be any problems if he avoided the alcoholic.  But there were problems, he bit his lip and gazed forlornly at his wounds.  How could a parent do this so willingly to their child?  His breath hitched in his throat- it’s because they don’t love me.  Of course, it was his sparkling diamond of a sister who hogged all the love.  Who received the brutal beatings and hurtful insults along with the feeling of failure?  He did.  Who was the lucky child that accepted kisses on the cheek every night and basked in the spotlight of positive attention whenever a good grade was achieved?

---

      “She did,” He whispered, back to the present.

      Adjusting her microphone, the worker in the trademark McDonalds outfit shot him an impatient glance, “Hurry up, sir.  There’s a line behind you and I do believe you’ve done enough contemplating for your order.”

      “Just give me the cheapest thing on the menu.”

      She mumbled his request into the headset and began hitting numerous keys.  Not really paying attention, he stared absentmindedly at the wall displaying the current kid’s meal toys.  A plastic space ship was glued to a galactic background.  So many years ago, he had literally begged on his knees for a similar toy.  Nothing was as important as that toy was so many years ago, and all that begging was in vain.  A grimace inched across his worn face as he wondered over how naïve he once was.

      “Here, sir,” Placing a colorfully printed bag on the counter, she pressed another button, “That’ll be $2.50.”

      Tossing the money carelessly and without a tip, the man snatched his food and sauntered to a free table.  The seat creaked as he placed his behind upon it with a small grunt. As he grasped the bag, a swift movement from the corner of his eye grasped hold of his attention.  Legs swinging freely into the air, a little boy giggled as his mother swung him around lightly, arms holding him up to ensure he didn’t slip.  It was obvious they were mother and child.  Both showed off chestnut colored hair, and short sleeves revealed freckled arms.  Though the boy had a set of darker eyes, both pairs sparkled with laughter.  The mere sight sparked a sick, yearning feeling in the deep pits of the man’s stomach, and it definitely wasn’t hunger.

      “He looks sad, mama,” said the child with confusion. “Where is his family?”

            Surprised, the woman allowed a lock of stray hair to fall across her face.  Feeling uncomfortable with having two strangers analyze him, he shifted in his seat and opened up his bag.  Almost immediately, disgust appeared across his features.  Apple dippers, he thought with repulsion, EW.  However, it was better than not having any money at all or starving.  Each bite of the skinned fruits caused the man to shudder in disgust.  He soon found himself smothering them with as much caramel as he could to conceal the natural taste.

            “Hey,” The woman from before whispered to the child, “Go wait with daddy, okay?  Mommy wants to check something out.”

            Nodding obediently, he piped up, “Yes, mama,” and hurried off to the side of a man waiting in line.

            Glad they finally occupied themselves with something else other than staring at him, the homeless man relaxed slightly.  His relief that their attention was directed away from him was short lived, however, and the sound of approaching footsteps suddenly stood out to him compared to the numerous clouds of conversation flitting about in the noisy café.  Despite the obvious fact they were harmless, cold fear he hadn’t felt since the time he almost received a bullet to the sides on the streets suddenly streamlined through his veins in a rush.

            “Excuse me?  Her voice broke through to him, and forced him to drag his gaze from the repulsive apples to her unfamiliar face.

            Stunned, the homeless man blinked a barked rudely, “What?”

            “Nothing,” She replied quickly, smiling a bit, “You just looked lonely…like a man who lost the people who loved him.”

            Wincing as she hit an emotional spot in his heart, he stuttered, “I…” he lost his voice for a moment, but regained his sharp tongue, “What do you want?”

            Chuckling slightly, she waved a hand casually in the air, “As I said, you look lonely.  Would you like to sit with my family?”

            “No,” He snapped, resuming to pick at his food while ignoring the stranger.

            Satisfaction but also regret washed over him as he heard her leave.  Her footsteps melded with the other noises and the homeless man was, once more, alone.  People commingled and small talked, bluntly ignoring the shattered soul hunched in the corner.  He obviously wasn’t used to being cared for as all the people of his childhood had shunned him as an unwanted ob
ject.  For a moment, the only thing he paid attention to was how off track he was and how pitiful everything seemed.  Breaking his cloak of misery, the woman strutted herself up to him and shoved him over so she could sit beside him.

            “What in-” Stopping suddenly, he gaped as another man and the woman’s sun slid into the seat facing him.

            “Met my son and husband,” she beamed and began talking to him as if he were a close friend rather than some untrusting stranger from off the streets.

            In the midst of all the randomness, the little boy reached over and patted the man’s hand, “Don’t worry, mister.  I hate apples too.”

            He froze, feeling the child’s warm, smooth hand atop his own calloused ones.  Glancing down, he stared at the obvious difference…at the large contrast.  The younger boy’s nails were nicely trimmed, the skin nourished by some kid’s lotion, and the skin smooth.  Unlike his scarred arms, the child bore no marks of inflicted pain besides a fading scrape from a likely incident.

            The child had loving parents.

            His mother and father were hard workers who used the fruits of their labor to nourish themselves and their son.  Each one of them possessed potential…the child would get somewhere in life.  All the differences between them were easier to see than a blot of ink on paper.  Warmth radiated from the boy’s youthful smile.

            “Yes,” the man agreed softly, nodding slightly, “Apples aren’t nice.”

            Beaming as if she knew the positive effects they were giving, she leaned over and grasped his other hand, “Dear, would you like to stay over for dinner?  McDonalds isn’t always a pleasant place to be for dinner.”

            “We plan to make pasta,” her husband explained, grinning happily at the thought, “Our table can seat six.  There’s always plenty of room.”

            “Can Uncle stay?  Can he?” the child stared up at the homeless man hopefully, appearing as if having him over would be the greatest present in the world/

            Uncle?  His lips twitched slightly, fighting the oncoming smile.  Never before had he thought anyone could confuse him as their uncle.  He, literally, held no existing connection to his family.  They left him in the remnants of his ruined life to die from his own decisions.

            “Sure…” he mumbled, supposing he might as well accept the free meal and save money for his drinks.

            Before he could really change his mind, the woman gently grasped his arm and brought him out.  The child obediently tossed the leftovers into the trash, singing a squeaky clean song under his breath.  It had been so long since he last rode in a car.  Weird feelings churned in his stomach as the car door slammed shut.  The final lock cut them from the rest of the world, leaving all four of them together.  How could strangers, no matter how humble they w ere, trust him?  Nobody ever trusted him with good things, only the dirty jobs of taking out trash and cleaning up after his father’s rampages.  His mother was kind, but obviously showed more p*censored*ion for her husband than children.

            “Mommy, can we turn on the radio?” the child inquired, eyes shifting towards it, “Please?”

            “Would you mind?” Though the woman didn’t glance at him, it was obvious she asked him.

            It matters if I mind?  Blinking in surprise, he shook his head.  Then, realizing she couldn’t take her eyes off the road, mumbled his reply so she would hear.  Instantly, the radio flickered to life and music streamed into the compartment.  Hey Jude filled the dim car, and all three burst into lyrics.  The happiness made the man cringe, but at the same time experience the emotions they felt.  The child, though pitchy, sang quite well with his parents.  However, the man noticed, the mother sang joyously, but the happiness did not reach her eyes.  Old pain rolled past them, but she concealed her emotions quite well.  At the same time, the man leaned his cheek against the cool window.  The song reminded him of unhappy beginnings…well, not the song itself, but how often it was played to him as a child.  His own mother, a talented singer by nature, always sang the song in an abnormally high pitch. To her children, she was a screaming cat.  To her husband, she was his own personal opera singer.

            “Hey Jude…don’t make it bad.  Take a sad song, and make it better,” the boy paused, thinking over what the next lyrics were, and stumbling upon the fact he had no clue what they were, contented himself to hum it instead.

            “Ah,” Breathing out calmly, the woman’s husband entwined his fingers together thoughtfully, “They don’t make music like this anymore.”

            Not replying, the homeless man, who for some reason wasn’t feeling like one, fingered the small handful of dollar bills- his drink savings.  Through the whole car ride, they sang, their joy almost infectious.  How could they be so happy?  None of them probably experienced life through his eyes, but surely SOME hardships would have weighed down upon them too?  Envy built up inside of him, and he desperately desired to know their secrets.

            “We’re home!” Flinging out his arms, the child yelled, full of exuberance, “Yay!”

            They’re home; the man thought with a strange feeling, I’m just the invader they took pity on.  Still laughing, the boy bounded out the car the second the door opened.  Spinning around in endless (and pointless) circles, he began to tramp towards the mud.  His mother gently picked him up before his shoes could meet the grime. 

            “Come now, don’t want to get dirty yet.  Daddy and I have to make dinner for the next few hours,” she explained, holding him close.

            As a child, dinner was something he had to take part in to have.  If he was too sick or tired to help, his father would exclaim how lazy he was and refuse to give him any.  Luckily, his sister’s sympathetic feelings aided him, forcing her to be a good sister and share her portion when their parents’ backs were turned.

            “You want me to help?” he didn’t know why he was volunteering; perhaps he felt in debt for the kindness they bestowed upon him?

            Her husband looked at him, “Sure…you best clean up though.  You may use the shower upstairs, and I’ll let you borrow some of my old clothing that may fit you.  I outgrew them.”

            “Thank you.”

            Despite the woman and her husband being only an average of about 8 years older, he couldn’t help but feel like a child again.  In a way, he was jealous of the little boy for having a childhood he never received a taste of.  With a slight nod, he ambled into the home after them.  The moment they stepped into the house, the man felt grubby.  Even if he took off his dirty jacket and shoes, the dirt on his undershirt would flake off and drift to the clean carpeting.  Was being homeless a plausible excuse for dirtying their household?

            “The bathroom is up there.  Just turn left until you see the room with the picture of a toilet taped to the wall,” The boy’s father told him.

            Leaping up proudly, the child held his chin up,” I drew the toilet!”

            Smiling with slight amusement, the man cautiously placed his shoes onto the rack farthest from the others.  As he sauntered up the stairs, attempting not to dirty anything up, he wondered why they had decided to approach him out of any other homeless person at the McDonalds.  He definitely did not deserve it after everything he’d done.  Grimacing, he found the door to the bathroom and what he first viewed as a patio chair was really a crudely drawn toilet.

            It had been a long time since he was in a non-public bathroom, to be truthful.  The man shed his filthy clothes, remembering how everything he obtained from charities trying to help he sold for alcohol money.  Warm water trickled down his face as he turned it on, enjoying the warmth.  No matter how relaxed he was, curiosity continued to eat at him inside.  Feeling refreshed as he stepped out, he realized where his pile of old clothes once sat a clean white T-shirt and light tan shorts took their place.  The man just gaped once more at their thoughtfulness until he recalled his promise to help with dinner.  In a moment, he threw the clothes on and hurried down the stairs, no longer feeling as filthy.

            “You take long showers,” the child remarked, eyes fixed on a small, electronic gaming device in his hands.

            “We’re mostly done,” From the kitchen, the woman’s husband called out, followed by the sound of a heavy ob
ject thudding onto the countertop, “We need to peel and cut the potatoes and carrots, begin soaking and cooking the rice, but lastly preparing the fruit salad.”

            Wow, the man thought, slowly making his way into the bright room, “That’s a lot.”

            The other person occupying the room paused, “It’s alright if you don’t want tot help.  You’re a guest.”

            “No,” he replied stubbornly, gazing at the row of vegetables and cooking utensils, “I’ll help.  It’s always good to help out with what you’re about to enjoy, isn’t it?”

            Smiling, the woman’s husband handed him a chrome peeler, lightly requesting the carrots and potatoes to be peeled.  Normally a lazy man, he nodded and began to do so, for once without a complaint.  I suppose being in such a warm atmosphere makes work tolerable, he thought, dragging the shiny tool down the length of a carrot, Amazing.  A couple vegetables later, his arm began to ache.  The other man, however, chopped melons and berries for the salad with such accuracy and speed; it was as if he did so every day.

            “I won!” Breaking the silence that had formed while working, the boy scrambled to his father, waving the game which beeped a happy tune directly into his face.

            “Congratulations,” his father said, glancing down at his son and resuming to chopping the papaya, “I have to make dinner.  Finished your homework yet?”

            Pouting, he dropped his arms to his side, “I don’t want to!”

            As he rinsed the carrot, the man listened to their father to son conversation.  The woman’s husband was so very tolerant, being able to withstand the stubborn will of a child.  During his childhood, the man managed a few brief moments of retaliation only to be shot back down to the level of a helpless and abused kid.  For the umpteenth time, memories dragged him back down again.

            “Careful!” Leaping back, the father cringed as the knife the man held slipped from his grasp.

            The knife clattered noisily on the floor, leaving a few scratches on the wood.  Wincing, the man bent over, placing the knife back on the counter.  Would they kick him out because of his small mistake?  It was a pure miracle that they allowed such rebellion in their household, and even more of a miracle that a random, unknown, and possibly dangerous homeless stranger to walk into their house.  No reason existed that cried “This man deserves kindness!”