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NIGHTMARISH REALITY may contain graphic and disturbing scenes. Some content may be controversial in nature and may not be appropriate for younger readers; therefore, you must be eighteen or older to continue.
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The Hobo
The sweltering heat made me come back to my senses. I took a deep breath outside and counted to ten. After the chaos of the past few days had come to an end, I needed to relax. Dealing with Mr. Royadie and my mother’s rage was unbelievable. I didn’t know how I survived them both.
The lake was teeming with fish and tadpoles; I came to a clearing and saw the old bridge. A few cars zoomed by. The bridge (known as Old Bridget as everyone called her) was large enough to support fifty or so vehicles. Like any other arched bridge, she was made out of pure concrete; however, Old Bridget had several support beams and buttresses made out of iron and steel. She had graffiti spray painted on the walls, and she appeared to have been around for ages.
I couldn’t really estimate her real age, but she looked ancient. During the five and a half years I’ve lived in Florida, Old Bridget was my sanctuary. It was a quiet place to be alone. I didn’t know why I fell in love with that old bridge, but it had a lot to do with feeling safe. Old Bridget provided me with plenty of shade from the sun and shelter from the rain.
I knew I could get away from this Hellhole called the Sunshine State. I raced to the old bridge as fast as I could; this location was where I felt at ease. It was the greatest spot for any loner like me. A swift current of air startled me off my feet. I came to a standstill and almost tripped over myself.
I reached Old Bridget and she stood there right before my eyes just waiting for me. From a distance, I realized that I wasn’t alone; someone was laying beneath the bridge on a small hill, in my sitting corner. Whoever it was made me angry. Where did this person come from? How did he get here?
No one knew of my hiding place, but me. Even though it was somewhat murky, I could tell that he was a black man, middle-aged, maybe older. When I ambled under the bridge, I stopped and glanced around. I took baby steps to see if I could sneak up on this person, who took it upon himself to sleep beneath my bridge. Of all the places!
Why did this man have to nap here? There were plenty of other bridges around. So, why this one?
What nerve. At first glance, I thought he was homeless, yet his clothes weren’t tattered.
Maybe a few tiny holes here and there, that was it. His clothing weren’t covered in filth; in fact, they were rather clean. The man’s hands seemed dirty, but that was because he could’ve been on the dirt all day. It didn’t make sense to me. He didn’t have a shopping cart full of his belongings; he didn’t look as if he was on drugs, and he didn’t reek of any foul smells. The man smelled of sunflowers and honey.
Maybe he was a hobo or a traveling worker. But I’d never seen one before, so I wouldn’t even know if I was staring at one in the eye. These days, hobos (like Charlie Chaplin) just didn’t exist anymore. Not in this century with color television sets, Internet, and cell phones. Those old black-and-white days were over; nowadays you needed a resume if you wanted a job.
No resume. No job. If he wasn’t a hobo or a homeless person, then what was he? Why was he here at all? He did seem rugged looking and had a thick gray beard. The man was bald, and all he had on were blue jean overalls that had one missing button. On closer inspection, his lips appeared dry and cracked; I couldn’t see his eyes, because his arm was covering his face.
“Hey. You’re in my spot.” I strolled up and kicked at his muddy boots. “Can you please move?”
He didn’t move, so I assumed he was dead. I wanted to run and call the police, but I was foolish and curious enough to see if he was still alive.
Curiosity did kill the cat, I thought.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - The Nightmare That Started It All
Chapter 18 - A Streak Of Green
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