His Lips Were Blue

His Lips Were Blue
By ***Silver Stars***






The flickering light of the fire danced along the walls of the graffiti-covered concrete. Three men huddled around the warmth, teeth chattering, bundled in ragged blankets and tattered sweaters. One man sighed audibly over the crackling of the fire before speaking, his voice raspy with the struggles of a hard life.

"Cold night tonight."

One man grunted quietly in response, the other just closed his eyes. All three were tired, waiting for Death to finally arrive and take them somewhere where hunger never gnawed at their stomachs and their skin never felt raw from the sting of harsh winter winds.

The oldest man, who had hair as gray as the drizzling sky outside, started to cough violently. His body shook and shuddered with each hack until the man who had spoken struck his back several times. He stopped coughing but continued to wheeze alarmingly before shuddering to a stop.

The silence, broken occasionally by the crack of the fire, resumed.

"I remember a night like this before..." The third man's voice was hoarse. He was desperately thirsty.

"I met a girl. Her name was Erin. She was a beautiful girl. I remember wantin' to kiss her the first time I ever saw her." He smiled at the memory, revealing a row of crooked, mostly missing, yellow teeth. "I did everything to impress her." He spoke with a slight lisp.

None of the other men responded.

"Gorgeous girl. Broke my heart she did. Left for the city, glamorous to her, I'm guessin'. She always wanted to be an actress." He paused to cough. "Last time I was ever happy was right before she left. Never found out what happened to her..." He trailed off.

Cars zoomed above them, on the highway, rushing to get home to dry houses and loving wives and hot dinners. No one worried about the three old men underneath them, huddling around a fire. No one had worried about them for the past thirty years.

Who would care now?

"After she left, I got into some stuff I still ain't proud of," the man began to speak again despite having a raspy voice that scratched his throat when he tried to speak. "I still think that if she hadn't left, we would've gotten married and I would have a house an' a job an' kids. I wouldn't be on the streets."

The other men finally looked away from the fire, pity in their eyes.

"Took my soul, that's what she did."

The eldest man began to cough again, whooping coughs that racked his body and were more violent then the first. Both men thumped his back but he continued to heave. His lips were blue.

"Good luck," the man who had been speaking whispered, placing a hand on the elder's heart, feeling it beating wildly underneath his palm before slowing to a near stop. The man's clothes were cold.

----

Jack stumbled along in the muddy waters that pooled on the sidewalks and streets. It had been almost a year since he had walked these backstreets and alleys, searching for a dry place to stay for the night. It still looked the same; worn, huddled men with tattered blankets wrapped tightly round themselves gathered in small groups sitting on the cold concrete, backs faced to the wind.

He jammed his chilly hands inside his warm coat pockets and walked on, stepping over and around puddles and people. He felt awful.

Finally, he reached the spot. Underneath a busy highway, covered in graffiti and trash. The spot was empty.

He walked to the wall, placing his hand on its cool surface before running his fingers along it, looking for a certain patch of spray-painted concrete.

RIP Buddy Hall. God Bless Him.

The words were small, scrawled in dark pink from a nearly dried-out Sharpie. You could easily miss them if you didn't look hard enough. It was hard to believe a man had died here.

Jack stepped back. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He tried not to smoke anymore, a nasty habit he had picked up when he bought his first apartment, which he was promptly kicked out of for not paying the rent.

This was a reasonable excuse to light one.

Jack was determined not to live on the street anymore. After Buddy had died, he realized he didn't want to live his whole life as a bum. He wanted a wife and kids and a decent living. He wanted to be remembered, not have his name scrawled sloppily underneath a highway, slight chance of being noticed by some slightly observant but mostly uncaring person.

No. He was going to live a normal life. Or try to.

He dropped the cigarette and closed his eyes briefly before turning away and heading back home.

----

"It's okay," Cora's voice was soothing as she rubbed Jack's shoulders. "It wasn't your fault."

Jack hated the way remembering Buddy made him cry. He barely knew him. He had met him the night he died, along with that other man, the one who had talked about some girl he had once loved.

But remembering his death destroyed him. Knowing some man wasted his life and he had nearly met the same fate made his stomach flip and his heart ache.

Sure, his apartment was a piece of crap and was tiny and cramped but it was better than living off the streets where he felt hungry ninety percent of the time and he always felt sore.

And he didn't have Cora either.

Cora wiped away one of Jack's last tears and smiled sadly. He stared at her for a moment before wrapping his arms around her and laughing loudly.

"I love you, Cora," he said, kissing her. "You're my angel. I would've died on the streets if it wasn't for you."

Cora kissed him back. "I love you too," she said softly.

The night was dismal outside but inside his dirty, small apartment Jack felt safe. He was one of those men who drove on the highway and came home to hot diners and loving wives.

He was one of the lucky ones.

He had escaped.






~End