♥Reira♥Layla♥Raera♥

Follow Me

By: Raera

I gave up; there was no point of walking down the dreary path. I let myself surrender my weight onto a bus stop bench.

Shadows stretched on endlessly upon the crusting pavement, streaks of destruction lined the worn city road. The lime green paint peeled off the wooden planks of the bench, rigid pieces of expired paint debris clung with the last of its strength. On the remains of the paint, faded Graffiti became the only lively aspect of this dying scene.

I turned away from the tragedy of the bus stop bench, soaked leaves littered the sidewalk and street. Perhaps the leaves were once coloured orange and yellow and red; happy colours. However in the current darkness, they have all become soggy lumps of brown and black. A drop of rain invades the peace and quiet, the eerie silence ended as raindrops make desperate pounds against a mail box. So much for the few rainless minutes, this city will always be and has always been drowning in the rain.

I lifted my face to let the rain wash the sticky perspiration from my greasy cheeks and forehead; my breathing became without rhythm as silent tears mingled with the raindrops. The weak tangerine coloured street light became distorted in my eyes. I forced my eyes to focus on the mess of light rays only to see a worn streetlight supported by an antique-aged pole. It must be a sad life to be a streetlight.

The government never paid enough for anything the people needed, never has, and for sure never will. The only light source on moonless nights as tonight were provided with less than minimal power to keep from dying. The streetlights were the best social workers; they remain standing against slapping wind, against pouring rain, and everything else in between. The streetlights are never picky; they don’t call in sick and never complain about back aches. The streetlights are tolerant; watching over heartbreaks and witnessing crimes that take place beneath its small illuminated circle.

Bird feces dried in a mockery of a line, the animal was probably flying off fast when it decided to unleash what’s left of their last meal. The pavement was stained in various places with bird poop, a dirty little flaw that people stepped over and ignored. The imperfection it brought was always overlooked and forgotten. That’s how the society treated crimes.

A bark and a whimper penetrated my thoughts. I turned to face a shaggy dog standing a metre of two away, it faced me. The dog sniffed the ground around me, and then paced in circles. It was limping slightly. There was no tag or collar around the dog; it probably felt hopeless at this moment. I glared at the disgusting animal. Its fur was coated by mud and grime, there was drool running down the fur near his blackened lips. The two fangs poking out his lips were the colour of tobacco breath, and its eyes hated the world and whatever owner it was that had disowned it.

The dog sniffed around, I supposed it deemed me to be safe as it slowly approached me. As it got closer, I noticed clumps of dried blood matted on its left hind leg. My heart gave a little jump to think that even a homeless dog would be beaten despite its already helpless state. I fished around my bag for some crumbs of bread that may be left behind from a recent shopping trip; the dog heartily ate the scraps I found. I opened my arms and the wet dog shakily stumbled towards me. As it got near, it shook rain out from its fur.

Handfuls of water were forced off the thick untamed fur, the motion had spread the scent of the dog all around me, and it reeked. The smell was a story itself, containing essence of rotten meat, expired milk, and construction ruins. I held my breath and shut my lips are I could almost taste the scent of rusting copper among the spoiled aroma of food. The dog looked at me with guilty eyes, desperate for me to pity its state. I snuck in another pinch of air, and then gagged on it. My nostrils felt raw in the presence of reeking blood.

I placed my hands on the throat of the dog, and squeezed. If it was to live in such turmoil, then death was a better alternative. The dog didn't’ struggle, it didn’t whimper. It only gazed back at me.

Its eyes had sorrow and remorse, its eyes were lonely and were filled with longing; its eyes somewhat reminded me of me.

I watched the hopeless world, the rotten streets and the broken limbs of every tree. I felt the unrest of the guilty, the desire of the dreamers, and the hope of those well sheltered from pain. I walked away from that bench, the pile of leaves and the deserted street. I left.

And the dog followed me.