Once seen, though the rest of the face remained
difficult to recall, these darkened orbs were indelibly burned into
memory---fierce, desperate, and dying. Restless, fearful, weary of the
crumbling bridge that so narrowly separates life from death.....
He had not always been this way. Though his childhood had been tragic
enough---abandoned shortly after birth, stored like some kind of
hazardous waste in orphanages and foster homes, moving on as he became a
troubled adolescent (and who wouldn't be?) to jails and juvenile
detention centers---it had not killed him, and that at least was
something. He had run away (escaped) at the age of sixteen, and like so
many other lost souls without hope or guidance, had gravitated to New
York City to be tried by the relentless hell-fire of the streets.
But unlike most, he had survived. Here, through various underground
activities, ranging from petty theft and burglary to trafficking
narcotics, he had somehow managed to keep body and soul together. And
no one seemed to take much notice of one more suspected junkie, living
in abandoned buildings and selling small quantities of marijuana,
cocaine, and whatever assorted pills he could buy, make, or steal from
dockside warehouses. He was left alone for the most part, and aside
from the odd roughing up by the police, given tentative permission to
exist.
Pages:
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335