He checks the balance on his pre-paid cell phone. It tells him cheerfully to "re-up now" as his balance is under five dollars. He can receive calls but not make them, which isn't going to happen because no one calls him any longer. Not even bill collectors. The bills exist. They sit opened and fanned out on the table that he pulled from a dumpster. The red "Notice" adorning every letter looking like Kool-Aid on the white paper with the long notice about this being an attempt to collect a debt.
The only sounds he hears is the rumble of his stomach and the cat sleeping on the window sill. He has made sure that he has been able to feed his cat, even when he hasn't bothered to feed himself. He thinks this to be fair. Making sure the cat is properly fed before he takes him to the park and lets him go. He knows this cat, which is named "Cat", will survive. He was completely feral before he was rescued and treats his nominal master as a food dispenser and little more; an emaciated vending machine of ash and salmon. "Cat" will become the dominant male of the park where he has seen at least a dozen cats before.
"Cat" deserves a chance.
The fridge serves as little more than storage space, the power having been disconnected weeks before. He opens the door and with a deft flick of his thumb, provides light with an old Zippo that family legend says his grandfather carried in the South Pacific. He, of course, does not believe this. If he did, he would not still own it. He would have given it to someone to prove his love or fidelity or some other concept of humanity that he vaguely remembers from when he considered himself human.
The fridge still has that decaying and clammy smell because he was too lazy to remove the spoilt food for two weeks. He couldn't be bothered. It was already gone and what was the point. He grabs a half empty bottle of water and fills it from the sink. The water is still working. He drinks it down, fills it again, and sips at it for a while, hoping that the water will confuse his stomach for a while, at least until he can pass out on the old couch, inherited from some college kids who moved out years before, a couch that remembers when he was human.
He sees himself as a ghost now, no reflection, a shadow in other people's eyes.
He does not know what caused this change, when he stopped getting calls from friends, when he stopped going out, when he stopped caring, as it just happened to him. He stayed in the same place and life, and everything associated with life, passed him by, leaving him alone, which is all he ever claimed to want in the first place.
He looks at his watch, which was a gift a long time ago, and it is a reminder from when he was among the living. It reads quarter past two through the scratched and dirty face. The face is why he still has it. The pawn shop refused it. The perturbed Korean owner sending him away with a scowl for wasting time. He can nap now. Or try. He doesn't sleep so much as he lurches from bad dream to bad dream, never remembering them. He does not remember anything but the moment before and the moments of shame he has had since becoming what he is now.
Sweating, he wakes up. "Cat" is sitting on his chest with a look that is barely distinguishable from his larger and less domesticated cousins who roam the jungles and the savannahs. If "Cat" were larger than his eleven and one half pounds, he would be feline Fancy Feast right now.
He checks his watch. It is now seven in the evening. He was able to escape for five hours.
He realizes that he stinks. He cannot remember the last time he showered. Too difficult in the dark, plus he can't afford food, how can he afford soap? It doesn't matter. He reaches into the pile of clothes that have accumulated around the couch and pulls out a t-shirt. It doesn't smell of shit. He slugs off his sodden t-shirt and painfully puts on the "clean" one. He notices the blisters and pustules and other assorted blemishes that cover his chest and arms. He wonders what his face looks like. Tentatively, he touches it. There is a matted and greasy beard there. When did he grow a beard? He is tempted to uncover the mirror and look at himself.
He fails to remember why he covered it in the first place.
"Best to leave it alone," he thinks to himself with neither a sense of self pity nor one of regret. He has reached this point without knowing how he got here and he does not care to start thinking about it now.
He drinks some more water, stands, and puts on the same jeans he has been wearing for…how long?
He does not know and this does not disturb him. His lack of realization is simply that. He lives in each moment, waiting for the next minor tragedy. His bare feet are black with grime and he is missing a couple of toenails. He pulls on battered generic sneakers, walks into the bathroom and takes a piss, not caring or realizing that he has missed the commode in the half light of the dark flat.
In the pile of clothes is a sweatshirt for a moving company. He puts it on and grabs "Cat" who objects for a moment and then begins to purr. This may be the first time that "Cat" has purred for him.
Opening the unlocked door, he has nothing to steal so he stopped locking it, he and "Cat" emerge into a small foyer that smells of waste, garbage, and diesel exhaust. Not bothering to close the door behind him, he walks out onto the street, and towards the park.
"Cat" starts to struggle. He now walks with a greater purpose. This is the first goal he has a chance of completing. He strides to the middle of the park and puts "Cat" down. "Cat" looks at him and then runs off into the bushes.
"Mission accomplished," he blandly states without a hint of irony.
He turns, and walks down the hill toward the riverwalk.
The sun has almost set, and it is reflecting a pinking light across the brown expanse.
He walks south, not knowing why. Both the direction and the choice to walk are unknowns to him. It is not quite a compulsion, and it is less than a feeling. Walking, it is.
He falls into a quiet reverie, feeling every step, not noticing when the river walk ends and he starts on a mud path. The moon which has come up is obscured by clouds. He cannot see the dial of his watch. He does not know how long he has been walking or why he is continuing.
All he can do is continue though. There is nothing else left for him to do.
He walks, ignoring the sounds of the water, and the light wind through the trees. The insects of late summer quiet as he passes them, only beginning their songs when this presumed predator passes.
The night is as dark as he has ever experienced.
He continues; thirsty, hungry, and sore. He thinks his feet are bleeding.
The light changes slowly, with a subtle shift that takes him a long time to notice. By the time he does, dawn is almost upon him.
When the harsh, yet comforting, light of morning hits him, he makes his first decision it what seems to be decades.
He will continue to walk.
