Page 1 of Seeing Grayscale

ONE

Evilisnotdefinedby wrongdoings, only by those who look upon suffering and do nothing.

How many people keep walking instead of asking the guy curled up on the street if he’s alright?

How many stop at the car, hiding that person hunched over, crying their eyes out?

What about that kid who showed up in class with odd bruises? You know the one I’m talking about. Is he clumsy or into sports despite only ever reading graphic novels and wearing an oversized hoodie during summer?

I’ll tell you just how many do nothing.

Everyone.

I know because that kid and that guy are the same.

He’sme.

It’s easier to go about your day with the mentality that you can do nothing. Helping a broken man in a broken world seems pointless, right? Oh, he’ll take that three bucks and buy meth. Sure, Karen, that’s exactly what he’ll do. Heaven forbid he hobbles into the gas station he’s been sleeping behind for the past two nights and grabs a dollar fountain drink, water bottle, and hot dog. And even then, he comes up short becauseNice Lady Karendidn’t factor in fortax.

“It’s $4.34,” the cashier says to me.

I pat down my jeans, hoping I'll have a few coins left, but I come up short. “Can I get you next time?”

He eyes me with disgust.

Believe it or not—I glance at his name tag—Harry, I did try. I tried real fucking hard to beat the system that was determined to destroy me, but here I am.

“It’s $4.34,” Harry repeats, eyeing the growing line behind me.

“Just the drinks, then,” I say, ignoring the growl in my stomach. Sometimes, if you drink it fast enough, the carbonation gives the illusion of something solid in your gut.

I would’ve abandoned the soda for the hot dog, but I'd rather have the cup for refills after I finish the soda and water. I'll have to panhandle for a few more bucks in the morning.

I pay for my drinks and hobble back into the chilly fall air.

Fuck, it’s cold.

Pulling my hood over my head, I hug the wall, avoiding the gawks from people getting gas, and make my way behind the building where the few things I still own are stashed.

The fact I’m not angrier about losing my sleeping bag and a pack of cigarettes might raise some eyebrows. Desperate peopledo despicable things. They will steal, fight,kill—anything to beat the odds, permanently swathed in this greyscale we call surviving.

So, no, I’m not angry. I’m just exhausted.

And my leg might be broken.

Lowering myself to the frigid asphalt, I stuff the bottle into my backpack before popping the straw into my soda and taking a careful sip. The bite from the ground isn’t dulled in the slightest through my threadbare jeans, and my busted lip makes drinking slightly painful. In hindsight, I probably should’ve bought a coffee, but that’ll only make me have to take a dump.

Judging by Harry’s glowing personality, I doubt he’ll let me use the restroom without buying something again.

You see, people like me are seen as filthy degenerates. The losers who spit on functionality. Those lazy motherfuckers whojust didn’t want to get a job.

Of course, that’s just one side of the coin. The other isn’t much better, in all honesty.

If we aren’t lazy, then we’re insane. Society’s rejects, if you will. I’m definitely a reject, and society definitely doesn’t want me, but neither are the result of each other.

I’m simply the kid who was failed in more ways than one, left to rot in a group home that didn’t seem to care what happened to him. Flunking out of school was ignorable—hell,acceptable.Not going? Who fucking cares?

It was easy to get caught up in that hive mentality. It was even easier to start taking what we wanted because consequences seemed like such a wild concept, mythical, and wouldn’t happen tous.

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