Stuck In The Past

He was surviving, the thing he does best.

Did he really want to give that one thing up?

Jamie Brian took his position on the far end of the bridge. His stomach ached as he pressed the empty thing against metal railings. His eyes were glued on the once red fire station across the lake. Now it was a brown lump sitting in a lot between a CVS pharmacy and 7 Heaven gas station.

He could finally face it now, after three years where he couldn't. He imagined his dad looking up at him from the building. Still in his heavy fireproof pants, yellow helmet and smog smeared across his flushed cheeks. His heavyset eyebrows and large grin would be up. There you go boy! A big hand patting him on the head.

Late spring was warmer this year and cold droplets of water sprinkled his cheeks while a warm breeze brushed the back of his neck. Jamie craned his upper body over the bridge.

He remembered his mother, dressed up in her pinstriped suit and gray trousers. Her stern expression twisted by alcohol in lazy grin that never suited her face. He sees her standing by his bed every night, and no matter how deeply he sunk into the blankets, she would know he was awake. She would make him work. The memories of clients flashed through his brain like the clock on his VCR. Pressed against his mother's carpet, his mind would drift to how dirty it looked, and wondered if the dust bugs were partying down there. By the time his client was done, he was too deep in thought to realize he could leave.

He remembered his strongest memory with his dad.

Jamie's dad was always nervous about him being kidnapped on the street. He came with him everywhere, always saying it wasn't always like this. One day Jamie asked what he meant by that.

"I'm from a different time." He responded.

"What time was that Dad?"

"I don't know, a different one. Stop asking me all these questions already."

And his mom.

Jamie was in the bathroom. His mom and (sometimes) his dad respected his privacy so he never locked the door. He had a razor to his legs, shaving the offending hair into the bathtub. He always thought it was gross when boys at his middle school wore shorts and had hairy legs. They looked like kid Bigfoots if you asked him. He didn't notice the door open until his moms startled gasp.

"Jamie! Put that razor down!" He dropped the razor on reflex and looked over his shoulder at his mom. She had her hands on her waist, wearing her business suit and hair in a bun.

"Men don't shave." She said in a matter of fact manner.

Jamie pouted, "Mom, I don't wanna look like a hairy lumberjack."

"Men should be hairy, don't you want hair like you father?"

Jamie stepped from the tub, "That's gross, Mom."

Now she had changed. Since the fire, she started drinking more, her business decisions were tremble and they had to sell the house.

He was lonely, always hungry and felt dirty. Like the hobo's that ate from the apartments trashcans. Or the homeless children he watched in one of those feed the children commercials.

He leaned completely over the bridge. Warm air rushed flapped his clothes like a flag out in the wind. He didn't even realize when his head hit cold water. His neck snapped from the impact and his body flapped against the water like a thrown away ragdoll.

This world is a horrible game

1) You can't win.

2) You can't break even.

3) You can't leave the game.

"Goodbye, cruel world

I'm leaving you today

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye..."