to death, and the police came asking for descriptions of the young thugs, not a single "normal" person, not one "law-abiding citizen," offered any evidence.
I don't want to be "normal." I’d rather be like him: just garbage
My angel left me more than a year ago, but I still feel his warmth and scent even now. The oversized, almost dimensionless windbreaker I wear has protected me since his loss. It happened the summer before last. That night was hot, and the windbreaker had been forgotten in the den. Thanks to his jacket, I have probably survived until now. I blend into the crowd and become invisible. Some people even mistake me for a young man, which works perfectly for me. Most of the homeless people in my area call me “his wife,” and none of them bother me.
The inheritance he left behind – his guidance and support – helped me battle cruel Fortuna day by day. The den remains the same. I’ve never called it “home,” only “the den.” It’s a tiny underground room between two metro stations. Originally a storeroom built for subway workers, it had been sealed off and abandoned long ago. That is, until my life tutor hacked open the door and transformed it. This dark, dingy space with its damp, basement smell became our dependable sanctuary.
I’m almost there now.