It was all a blur; it always was. It's like I've always said, we're all really alone. Did I mention that I like counting the petals on the old yellow flowers? You know, the ones growing out behind the pharmacy on the corner of 6th street? Great place, that old pharmacy and all, or at least it was. Probably spent half my childhood in that place, maybe more. There sure were some swell places to hide in there, and old man Mr. Martin didn't care one bit that we played in his store. Between you and me, I think he might've been kind of stupid or something. You know, like them folks over at the hospital where my cousin lives. We go to visit him on holidays sometimes, bring him these really swell toys, he never says thank you. That old pharmacy though, gee, I bet I could've hidden there for thirty minutes before I'd be found. I tell you, I knew all the good places to hide; my favorite was behind the old icebox in the corner, but my mom would say that it stunk up to the high heavens back there... but I didn't mind. Not much bothers me. To be honest, I haven't been inside the old pharmacy in quite a while. Not ever since good old Mr. Martin died in a car accident five years ago or something like that. Boy, I remember when he'd give me and my friends candy, no charge; he sure was a swell guy. Sad thing, his death and all. His son took over the store. I think he was happy that his old man had passed away. He always wanted to own that store. Make it a proper business he'd say. Make some money. Some folks just don't appreciate the little things, but, it's like I've always said, we're all really alone. The other day I was looking at the old pharmacy, thinking about old man Mr. Martin or whatever, when I saw his son doin’ something that caught my eye. He was out in front, had this broom, wavin’ it around all menacingly and all and making a ruckus at this homeless woman sitting out on the sidewalk. Saddest thing happened though, he chased her away, but in her hurry, she left this quilt. Now I've been here my whole life, and I know as good as anyone that the nights can get awfully cold, especially this time of year. I reckon she sure liked that quilt. And now, not that I'd go chasing people around with brooms and all, but had it been me, I would have given her back that quilt, but that son of Mr. Martin, he just picked it up like yesterday's trash and threw it in the dumpster. I decided I'd wait around for awhile, you know, tell her it was in the dumpster if she ever came back... but she never did. They never do. Sad thing indeed, but not much bothers me. While I'm thinking about it, couldn't have been more than four days ago, I'd found this yellow flower. It was different than the others, lonley, kind of sickly, I only counted three petals, figured it wouldn't live long, so I picked it. You know, figured I take it with me, let it see the sights I saw. Later that day though, I was walking down Grand Street, you know, the one that parallels the old Main Street that used to run down to the lake and all, not more than a five minute walk from the pharmacy. Anyhow, so I was walking down this street and all, when I spotted a bird on the side of the road just up ahead. Two boys were standing up above it all mean looking and all, a slingshot cord was hanging from the one boy's hand. The bird stretched out his wings, maybe he was about to fly away. I’d seen that the bird before. One of those small pale yellow ones you see sometimes, you know? Then, suddenly, the boy without the slingshot stepped on it. The hollow bones in the wing were crushed. They knelt, watched it flop around and all until it stopped. Laid lifeless in the dirt. I should've been real steamed, at those boys and all. I watched the bird lay there. I remember dropping the flower in my pocket. It’d seen enough. Did I mention that I like counting flower pedals? Especially the old yellow flowers behind the pharmacy. One day I'm going to take a hoe and kill them all. Every single one if I can. It's like I've always said. We're all really alone. It was like tonight; the man I saw walking out by the old Main Street Bridge. It was real cold out; I could sometimes see my breath and all. As he walked past me, sitting on a rusty bench, my hands buried deep in my pockets, he smiled and waved. You know, the half hearted sort of wave that's given not really expecting anything in return. I nodded. And then suddenly it happened, but never really quite happened, you know the way things go sometimes. A car, pure by accident I gather, jumped the curb. It's funny how things can go wrong sometimes, you know? I could still see his breath, the friendly stranger's, but he just lay there. I wished to God he'd get up, wished more than anything I'd ever wished for before, but he didn't. The car screeched to a stop and then sped away, leaving the stranger to surely die. I saw him lying there, gasping for breath and all, slowly dying right there in front of me. But it's like I've always said, not much bothers me. I could've called an ambulance; I could've tried to help him. But you what I did? I stood up, began to walk backward. Figured that maybe if I tried hard enough, wished it badly enough, I could somehow step out of this world and maybe be in a better place and all. Like stepping out of the frame of a terribly twisted movie. I felt the cold touch of the low railing on that old bridge, but I didn't stop. I kept walkin backwards, all the way over the side of that damn bridge. I think an old yellow flower fell out of my pocket as I plunged into the water. It rested on the surface before being consumed by the icy indifference of it all. And it's like I've always said, we're all really alone, but I try not to let that bother me, not much bothers me you know.
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