This is, I think, the first piece of fiction I’ve written since my late teens. The term “fiction” may be a stretch, though, as it’s basically a fleshed-out transcription of a recent dream. Blame my subconscious.
I am, to the best of my knowledge, the only person remaining in this city who has a home. The city is large and full of imposing multi-floor buildings, but every one other than mine is empty. And yet the city is not deserted. The entirety of its sizable population—with a single exception—lives permanently on sidewalks, in alleys, doorways and vestibules. Their city exists solely on the street level. Rickety but elaborate structures of cardboard, plastic, scrap metal, paper and stray fabric line every avenue.
Each day, I leave my building through a concealed side entrance and make my rounds. What those rounds consist of is unclear, but they bring me into regular contact with the great homeless majority. All are dressed in rags of an indeterminate color, flecked with smears of human and animal waste. Faces, hands, all areas of exposed skin are dirt brown, chapped and scabby. They reach out to me and ask for my help. I give them nothing.
Why nobody can gain access to any of the city’s empty buildings is a mystery, but it is apparently impossible to do so. Why I alone continue to have an actual roof over my head is also uncertain. Perhaps I was granted a favor sometime in the past. Perhaps it’s a matter of sheer luck.
Up until now, I have successfully camouflaged my movements when I enter and exit my building, so that no one knows I live inside. But I am in constant fear of discovery. I dread being overrun by my fellow citizens, and the revenge they may be moved to take on me for keeping my dwelling place a secret for so long.
It would be wrong to say that I have no sympathy for the predicament of the homeless. From time to time, I have considered inviting a few neighbors into my building. But which ones would I choose? There are so many. The ones who weren’t chosen would grow resentful, and unrest might result. Better to keep the waters unmuddied.
Like everyone still living in this city, I want help. But the help I want is different from the help my fellow citizens want. They want a help that will grant them comfort and dignity. I want a help that will deliver me from my fellow citizens.