Over

So that was it, it was over. He shuffled down the stairs dazed in a half sleep walk out among the churches, wars, television shows, alcohol and drugs with a box full of his things. A man fired from his life.

He wandered the streets, the box becoming heavier with each step. Miscreants, vagrants and cutthroats eyed him at each turn, all of them above him and yet wanting something which they thought he had. The hunger in their eyes wasn't something that could be sated, not by physical means. It was a hunger of absence, a piece of themselves missing from long before the physical desires had formed. The void could never be filled, the wound would never heal, and the well would always be dry no matter what, and who were thrown in. It would never get better, nothing would be alright, and he was one of them now. He didn't know when he'd stopped and sat, back to a too cold wall with the too hot sun beaming onto his face. His eyes scanning the broken frames, torn pictures and shattered glass that formed the makeshift puzzle of what was once a representation of a family. He was now on his own, without the thing that made him.

((continued later))