After her death, I could do nothing but run. I did; and that is how I came to be here. It was not easy; I think the rain made it harder, though at this point, I’m not quite sure if it rained at all.

I didn’t know her; that is not to say I didn’t know her well – I simply didn’t know her at all, not personally, in any case. I saw her every day as I passed her on my way to school, on the same street corner. She sat there – mute, still, nameless, alone.
She didn’t matter at first, just another homeless; they were not uncommon in this part of the city – some call it the slums, I call it home – so I passed her with ignorance. I avoided looking. But she never moved, never spoke and for the first few days, I childishly wondered if she was alive - I wanted to see her move, fall, breathe; I wanted to hear her voice – something, anything just to know she was alive.

I didn’t even realize that she became my obsession, but after I’d made some new friends and could have easily walked through the short-cut with them, I still walked the long way, just to pass her. I just wanted to be noticed; it was strange. There were endless excuses I made to myself to explain why I went to that street corner during virtually every free minute of my day – it was just to buy some milk, a magazine, a pen, anything, just to see her.

After a while, I didn’t only go there briefly, but began spending more time around her; at first it was across the street on a lonely park bench, sketching her. She wore rags, yet remained perfect, untouched. Her head was covered with an old toque, which may have once been blue or green, but was now brown from the dust and dirt around her. It covered her hair, which I daresay was the most gorgeous shade of auburn I had ever seen, even through the layers of dirt – it was easily recognizable as it fell flawlessly on her shoulders. She sat so still under a worn black blanket and at times, the wind blew it open and it displayed her torn jeans, barely keeping her filthy legs warm. Her sneakers were also ripped and her bare toes sometimes peeked through the worn holes. As time went by, I saw her eyes – they were blue, a deep sea blue, not to be confused with the light blue, which seems so popular in the media. Her eyes seemed to see through everyone – they were so empty.

I eventually began stopping as I walked past her, I gave her food and walked away each time, never watching her move; I know she did because it was always gone by the time I came back. It became my daily ritual, and eventually – though I’m still unsure of how it started – I began talking to her. At first I’d just talk about mundane things, standing above her, but it came to sitting beside her on the corner, sharing my life and myself with her.

“My mother and I had a fight the other day,” I remember telling her once, “I guess we fought about you – in a sense. This time she said she disliked me sitting here, said it gave the family a bad name, but I figure that our family can’t have any worse of a name.” I looked over at her and smiled, “I like spending time with you,” she remained silent, and I loved her.

So, every day I sat beside her after school until supper time, then I’d go home, but only to get food for her, since I could hardly bear my mother anymore. She always talked too much.
“You’ve been with her again, haven’t you? Do you know what you’re doing to your father? Can’t you see?” I noticed he wasn’t home, I looked at her carelessly, in a confused manner,
“Dad’s not home,” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“He’s out drinking, just like last night…and the night before,” she paused, “He wanted to raise you to support this family after he’d gone, and he put so much work into you! Is this how you repay him? Is it?!” While she talked, I’d packed some food into a container and with a final disgusted glance towards my mother I made my way towards the door.
“If you walk out that door again to see that filthy homeless bitch, you may as well not come back!” She meant it and I left.
That was the last time I saw my mother.

It was the first night I had spent away from home in years, since a camping trip I went on with my father when I was nine. I held her closely – she remained unmoved. Being there with her was tranquility, it was comfort and safety. I loved her, and that’s all that mattered. I told her all about the fight with my mother, and rambled about plans of running away together, finding somewhere better – I nuzzled my face against hers.

Suddenly – she moved. I couldn’t believe it. Her hand was gently placed on mine and I could feel my affection being reciprocated. I didn’t know what to do – it felt so wonderfully tranquilizing; something I had needed for a long time. But unexpectedly, she turned to me and said,
“I love you.”

That was all it took.

I turned my head and held her face in my hands, inching myself closer to her until our lips met – I could taste the foul flavour my mother’s dinner and the weeks of food, rotting, stuck in her teeth.

Nirvana.

Then, just as much as I loved her before – that one kiss, suddenly being needed, loved – it all opened my eyes. I didn’t want her! She was filthy, uneducated, homeless – she was a nobody. I continued kissing her and I broke the kiss slowly, tenderly stroking her cheek. I gazed into her eyes and smiled,
“I don’t love you.”

Tears filled her eyes and she went limp. It started to rain. Her weakness only helped my cause as I turned her head with ease to an angle it was never meant to reach. All it took was one rapid motion – snap. It was over. I felt her breathe her last in my arms and held her closely until morning. It was all so perfect again – until the realization the morning brought, along with the rain.

She was dead.

After her death, I did nothing but run. That is how I came to be here, on this corner. The rain suddenly stopped.