Being at peace seems like such a foreign concept.
After years of running in fight or flight mode, of surviving instead of actually living, I don’t think I’m going to be able to close my eyes for more than a few seconds without my anxiety kicking in let alonebe at peace.
And the other thing? Finding whatever it is I’m looking for?
I don’t have a fucking clue what that is, or how to go about figuring it out, either.
With a sigh, I towel off my hair and stare down at the freshly made bed.
A hot meal followed by an even hotter shower definitely helped. And it made me tired as hell.
I’m exhausted.
Clean, probably safe, and full, but absolutely exhausted.
I’m so tired I’m not even worried about the stains underneath the two fitted sheets, one flat sheet, heating blanket, and quilt.
Frankly, I’d sleep in a puddle of shit right now and not stress out about the germs until I woke up tomorrow, but thankfully I don’t have to do that.
I’ve never been a religious person, I think I’ve questioned the existence of a higher power more than anything, but I’m grateful other people believe strongly enough to open up their doors to anyone who’s down on their luck the way I am. This homeless shelter in the basement of a church run by a priest and his nuns is like a five star hotel with air tight security to me, and my dinner of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas and carrots could have passed as gourmet after the majority of what I’m used to.
I’m starting to think it might not be so bad staying here until I can find something more permanent.
“Hey!”
Ignoring the voice behind me, I hang my towel on the little hook in my locker then reach for a pair of socks before kicking off my flip flops. Exhausted or not, I’m not walking around any part of this basement bare foot. That’s inviting any number ofbacteria onto my skin, and I don’t think I can handle an infection right now. Physically or financially.
“I said fucking hey, priest!”
With a frown, I slowly turn to see what I can only describe as a viking towering over two nuns as he tries to push his way into the room.
He’s big, probably six-four or six-five. At least two hundred and fifty pounds, maybe more. The guy has a beer belly but it has to be hiding one hell of a six pack based on how huge his biceps and thighs are. Something I only know because this guy also happens to be wearing some kind of toga made from fake animal pelts, a kilt-like thing made from soda cans, knee high boots fashioned from sandals and trash bags, and a blanket turned cape. His outfit leaves nothing to the imagination, and it’s topped off with a motorcycle helmet spray painted silver, and a pair of bull horns fastened to either side of the headpiece.
His hair is long and matted, his face is smudged with dirt and covered by a scraggly, chest length beard. His feet are caked in what I can only hope is mud. I can tell from here that he smells awful, and this guy has to be at least fifty feet away from me. He’s loud and angry, most likely drunk, but overall he could be harmless. At least he doesn’t have any obvious weapons, and while he’s shouting over the nuns’ heads, he hasn’t laid a hand on them.
If that’s all that happens while he’s here, I’ll be fine.
I’m too tired to really give a shit, anyway.
Doesn’t mean I won’t watch whatever the hell is going on until my eyelids are too heavy to stay open. I don’t even think his shouting will keep me up. Might as well get a little entertainment out of his arrival.
Sliding my glasses on, I sit on the edge of my bed and angle myself to face the viking’s antics, pull on my socks and put my flip flops in the bottom of my locker.
“Father Guy, I know you’re here!”
My stare shifts slightly as the priest comes bustling into the room, clad in his pajamas and slippers while he pulls his robe closed around him.
“Rodney,” he says calmly as he hurries toward his nuns. “What have I told you about coming in here when you’re intoxicated?”
The viking—Rodney, apparently—stands a little taller as Father Guy comes between him and the nuns. “Not to.”
The priest nods. “Yes. I told you that you can’t come in here if you’re intoxicated, but what else did I tell you?”
“I can come in when I’m sober.”
“Which right now, you are not. Correct?”
“Yeah.” Rodney reaches up and scratches under his helmet, a chunk of something falling to his shoulder as he lowers his hand. “But I’m looking for something.”
