to fall so far
Foreword: This was originally written in 2001 for a zine (though not the same one for which I wrote death sentence), and submitted under a male pseudonym (basically since it was written for a male POV). I've cleaned up the grammar a little but it is otherwise unchanged.
Sometimes he goes out with no destination in mind. He likes to wander. Sometimes it's a compelling urge, a voice in his head that won't take no for an answer.
Once upon a time, in the seemingly distant past, he went out often. Not always with anyone, but there was always somewhere to go. Somehow he always had the means to finance it, even when he wasn't working.
These days it's a different story. These days he's almost a recluse. Not yet thirty and no life to speak of.
So sometimes he goes out on a whim and walks around. He might take a bus without checking to see where it goes. He might take his camera along in the hope of getting The Perfect Picture. It hasn't happened yet. He thinks it might happen before he's fifty.
Some nights he'll walk up to the intersection and stand on the corner, trying to look like he's waiting for someone in particular. He remembers that once he was like Them, once he dressed up and went out and had fun. Once, not so long ago, he knew how to behave in society. Once upon a time he had A Place. No longer.
The police move him on sometimes although they know he's harmless. More likely that harm will come to him and it doesn't look good in their reports.
He deflects unwanted attention by ignoring the person or by acting crazy, depending on his mood. Most of the regulars know him by now. He knows some people think he's a sex worker (despite his unsexy attire) but he doesn't care. Standing at the intersection, gazing at the bright lights, is as close as he'll ever get to the life he used to lead. The road which he crosses without a thought during the day is at night an unbridgeable chasm. He wouldn't be surprised to be challenged by a troll or billy goat one of these nights.
Sometimes he'll think simultaneously of the life he used to have and of the cutlery at home. He's ashamed of his circumstances and has no visitors. One fork, one knife, one spoon, and he can't always find them when he wants them. How different to the endless round of checking the gig guides, having his hair styled and spending ten percent of his pay (when he was working) on glam makeup and accessories. He almost can't believe that was him.
How he got here, how he "fell", he does not know. He can trace the route of events, always clear in his mind, but there is no distinct dividing line between Then and Now. He just dropped out, or friends moved away, or friends became enemies. Suddenly everything was different. Suddenly he was someone else.
He shies away from considering his situation in real terms. He doesn't want to have to admit he's a prisoner. Physically able-bodied and sound enough of mind, at least he can come and go as he pleases. To confront the issue of his illness would be to fall even further.
Falling.
Falling for, falling foul, falling out, falling off. He's so afraid of heights.