Drugged Abuse

A tramp sat at a cold, windy street corner and mumbled swear words at the cigarette in his hand that refused to light, his frail, near blue arms shaking in the wind, his small, glazed eyes peering feebly through a cheap woolen scarf. A little earlier, a few rosy cheeked young children had skipped up to him, dropped a few pennies into his upturned hands and skipped away again, beaming with pride. It was because of these kids that the tramp had managed to get himself his first box of cig's in a fair while, so in between great heaving coughs to clear mucus from his chest, the tramp gave silent praise to that nice bunch. They were pretty different from the last few, who had given him nothing but kicks and insults. But, as our tramp blew smoke onto his shaking, frozen fingers, he thought to himself, you've gotta be thankful for what you get.

Trying to keep his arm still, long enough to get the line of Coke close enough to his face, the tramp fought down the twitching spasms and freezing sweat to snort loudly, devouring the last of the substance with a hyena-like cackle. Too late, he looked up to see a blue outfit approaching with a stern face. Our tramp, assuming he was being moved on out of a doorway, moved to leave, but the Policeman quickly placed a hand on the his shoulder and turned him round. "Are you alright, sir? You look very pale." The tramp looked up from the badge and saw the Policeman looking down at him with a grim expression. Examining the Policeman's truncheon and boots, the tramp said he was fine, on his way home in fact, had just stopped to take a rest, sir. The Policeman sighed. "Alright then sir, if you say so. Here, take this, for a bus home." The Policeman slid a five pound note into the tramp's top pocket and, with a proud, knowing smile and a roguish wink he proceeded to walk back the way he came, towards home no doubt. The tramp, examining his prize, couldn't help but smile at the kindness of some people. You've gotta be thankful for what you get.

Leaving the Church with a full stomach once again, the tramp turned back to thank the Father for his generosity. "Not at all my child, it was the least I could do for one of God's children. I assure you, my son, your hard times will reach their end one day, and you will be graciously welcomed into the kingdom of heaven for your piety throughout these trials." With this the Father, proud of his humility, gave his tramp one last kind smile, and gently closed the door. The tramp took his usual route through the graveyard toward his Mother, humming his favourite hymn, All Things Bright And Beautiful. Arriving at the grave, his quiet singing was interrupted by the familiar growl from his stomach and he was forced to lean on the harsh stone until the pain ceased. Taking a few deep, freezing breaths, the tramp thought about the Father's words as he sang a few more lines from the hymn. "The rich man in his castle, The poor man at his gate, He made them, high or lowly, And ordered their estate." The tramp smiled a little, agreeing with the Father. You've gotta be thankful for what you get.

Taking another drink from the bottle the tramp had just bought, he fought down the shivers that had once again started up and tried to sit down. His head thumped loudly as he leaned against the cold wall behind him, his arms shook uncontrollably, and his vision had become blurry and distorted. Feeling the bile slithering up his throat the tramp clapped a hand to his mouth in silent protest, his legs refusing to bend to a sitting position. Across the road from him, a man and a girl clearing up the remnants of their market stall glanced his way. The Girl was the first to speak. "Shouldn't we go over and help him?" The Man scoffed at her naivety as the tramp gripped the wall with all his might and tried to hold on. "No, of course not. It might seem mean, but there's really only one person to blame for his condition." The tramp fell down onto his knees and tried to keep himself from vomiting. The young Girl who was barely a woman stopped work for a second time. "We can't just leave him be, he looks sick!" As the tramp slowly regained control of his breathing the man cleared his throat, as if preparing for a speech. "Listen, seen one of 'em, seen 'em all. Ask yourself, if they have the money to buy something as expensive as an instrument, why can't they play at a bar? If they've got the time and money to paint themselves white and pretend they're statues, why haven't they got the time and money to go to a job center? Finally, if they have the money to pay for the kind of things he's getting withdrawal from, why can't they use that money to buy food and a future? Exactly, in the end, they've nothing to blame but their own laziness and apathy." The Man, proud of his wisdom, hastily pushed the young Girl inside and slammed the door. On the other side of the street the tramp began to cry. He cried at the fact that the Man was right. He cried at the fact that there was so much generosity in the world that he took advantage of. He cried at the fact that he was too lazy to try and fix the problems good people gave him their hard earned money to fix. But most of all, he cried at the fact that his Mother was no doubt ashamed of him, he had let her down, and ruined everything. Thinking of God, his cry became quiet, and, shrinking as much as he could, he tried to look as humble as possible. And so, on his knees, racked with pain, and crying silently, the tramp was thankful for what he had.

(Authors Note: Well, this didn't turn out like I'd hoped. Thought about making it first person and adding a few more swear words for effect, but it was getting difficult writing the entire text with an accent. Anyway, hope you like it.)