A cool breeze blows through my apartment. “Ah, these are times meant for living,” I thought. It is 5:30 AM and the katydids have long since stopped calling. Their night of courting is finished. They have retired for the night and so should I, but I can’t sleep. I have so much on mind. The only sound drifting through my windows is that of crickets and it is a pleasant sound as well. I keep thinking it might be the last time I get to hear them for a long time.
I got out my suitcase and lay it upon my bed. I opened it and a musty odor emanated from disuse. “You know I thought getting out of homelessness would make things easier,” I thought. “They only seem to get harder.” I zipped up my suitcase and put it back on the top shelf of my closet. “You will be used again some other day,” I thought again with a renewed resolve. Then I thought of dad and how disappointed he is going to be in me when I refuse to go into that treatment center for six months.
Round One
“In this corner with have the surefooted and sure of himself man who controls things obsessively. He is a successful business owner with a stressful job. He has more friends than he can count and they are all successful and wealthy. He has full control of his faculties,” The announcer lauds. “Two of his children went on to be doctors.” *The crowd claps and cheers*
“And in the opposite corner we have the shy introvert with little material wealth. He is unsure of himself and his future. He lived in a tent for six months in the winter and has had one failed marriage. His friends are a drunk, a dumpster diver, a homeless man, and a panhandler. His greatest aspiration is to be a writer. *The crowd laughs at that last statement.* He has a mental illness and supposed alcoholism.” *The crowd jeers*
“Are you two men ready to rumble?” The announcer and referee asks?
We both hit our boxing gloves together and proceed to meet at the center of the ring. The bell rings and the fight starts. My father lands one punch and I am down for the count upon the mat. I have no one to bring me smelling salts to revive me or to patch and clean the wound upon my forehead. I am all alone. That is how I fear tomorrow will go. My doctor is going to believe the sane man and not the mentally ill dude. Fight over; round one. I fear I will spend the rest of my days rocking in a chair, watching Judge Judy, as spittle oozes out of the corner of my mouth from being over medicated. Let’s expect the worst and hope for the best. Besides, I hate Judge Judy and don’t particularly like boxing.
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