He sits hunched by the garbage bin, the squalid remains of his coat flapping in the

stiffening breeze. String circles his waist, a clumsy knot keeping the flea-infested

garment in place. No smells reach his nostrils as he tears at the half-consumed

chicken leg, gobs of congealed fat running down into his tangled mass of hair.Irritably
he wipes it away, black, broken finger nails digging into his grime-ridden skin.

     `Please..please no..not right..holy Father...why me..face..pillow...safe and

warm..not come again..won`t say a word.`

     Saliva and bits of chicken spill from his mouth, tiny bones embedding themselves
in the folds of his tattered coat. A light drizzle begins to fall, oily light from the

glistening pavement throwing eerie shadows along the dingy passageway.

    `I never will...ten hail mary`s...sorry Father...not a word...promise Father..not a

word..I wouldn`t.`

    He fumbles in the pocket of his coat, twisted fingers searching for the comforting

feel of smooth glass.

     `Between you an` me...promise...hot breath...please, no more..a little smile..big

rough hands..pain...hell and damnation!`

     The fiery liquid hits the back of his throat, furry tongue scraping across blistered

lips. He slumps back against the bin, his eyes staring blankly at the louring sky.

     Thirty years he has been on the road. He has no recollection now of when or why

he lost his reason. He was smart once, when they had given him his new coat and

sent him out into the world. `Time to make your own way now my son,` they had said
to him. He had watched the big door close behind him, seen the figure at the window

cross himself, felt his body freeze at the mirthless smile..

     He had many jobs, labourer, warehouseman, potman. All were fine until the

restlessness within him took hold. Then he would move, town to town, village to

village, hamlet to hamlet. His bed was the hedgerow, his ablutions the nearest river

or stream. What drove him on, he never fully knew. Was it fear? The dread of making
friends..Getting so close to someone he would, finally, feel compelled to tell..

      The drizzle becomes a downpour, torrents of water racing down the litter-strewn

gutter. By the garbage bin a figure lays motionless, a broken bottle by its side,

amber liquid mingling with the icy rainwater. A closer look reveals the face, ravaged

by a life of loathing and uncertainty, but now at last, softened by a small toothless

smile..