The Insignificant Somebody

Author: Disturbed Stranger Copyright © 2007

Blog: No Blog

Location: Kuwait

I woke up on a gloomy Monday morning with one side of my face pressed on the cold interior of a dumpster I called home. It was strewn with various possessions and a good smattering of rubbish. Pigeon feathers, apple cores and sweet wrappers littered the edges decoratively while old toys lay higgledy-piggledy among the tangled rags of worn-out clothes, and a mess of newspapers, partially covering me, sat in a puddle of light coming from a lonely, stray ray of sunlight. The rats of the night scurried off for cover while I, the dominator of the garbage heap, heaved myself on two weak legs, each the size of a slightly overgrown chopstick, to start a new day.

By midday business was booming. I had stationed myself near a famous café where most middle-class people would have breakfast before hurrying off to their diverse jobs. Numerous individuals took pity on me and spared me a few round coins, and on rare occasions, crumpled bank notes were sometimes whipped out. However, a certain individual’s picture stuck out as clear as glass in my mind, though it was not very pleasant. I had, unfortunately, chose the wrong day to walk up to a man who seemed extremely agitated, grinding his teeth as he stood there steaming. He looked up at me as I approached, his face was beaded with sweat although it was quite a chilly afternoon. He wiped his eyebrow with a white-gloved hand, pushing along as he did so, some of the long greasy hair out of his face. A pair of thin spectacles sat upon his crooked nose, his nostrils flared at the sight of me. I extended my arm, without really expecting anything, to produce a chipped mug that was stained with dirt, and I gently rattled it. Without realizing what had hit me, a split second later, the man had jumped to his feet, and had spat a relatively large amount of saliva in my direction, which hit me directly in the face and started dribbling downwards like cold, raw egg-white. He had then stalked off at a quick pace muttering furiously under his breath.

Night swam across the sky, as I huddled up in a corner, covering myself with filthy rags that had a sick grey tinge with striking resemblance to the colour of my unshaven and exhausted face. I rested my head on the window of the shop where I had decided to sleep. Minutes later, my head lolled over as I gave a huge grunt and my face was pressed against the window. The misty fug my breath had left on the window sparkled and reflected the glare of the orange street lamp, casting me into a world where I was not known, but just a ghost, just a nobody, just a beggar.

Reluctance vs. Submission

Author: Disturbed Stranger Copyright © 2007
Blog: No Blog
Location: Kuwait

It was dark. It was quiet. It was cold. It was damp. It was dead. The touch of the cold iron chains against her smooth, sensitive skin sent shots of shivers up and down her spine. Quivers. The rattling of the chains echoed back and forth on the thick 16th century stone walls, other than the crawling and squeaking of unknown varmints…that…was the only sound heard 50 feet underground in the cellar: The Dungeon.

But there was no one there to hear but her. Alone. Sinking in her sorrow. Alone. Her warm tears flushed down her cheeks. But she made no sound, for it insulted her to cry. She was not crying. Was it an involuntary necessity to discharge excess liquid? Perhaps. Suddenly, a lonely overhead light bulb lit. However, it was still dim. Rattling of keys came from behind the massive wooden door. There was a jolt at the huge metal lock. Unlocked. The door opened with a creak, sounds of footsteps were approaching her. Her heart started pounding with each step. She clasped her knees to her chin. The footsteps stopped. She looked up, squinting. There stood, blocking the light, the silhouette of a well-built figure. The dark figure stretched out his arm and murmured, “Drink this.” She was frightened. Very frightened. But confident.
“Take it,” the voice insisted.
“No,” she fired back and turned her head to the side.

“No?” The voice mocked. The figure bent down, supporting his weight on his feet and brought his face close to hers. He lifted the cup closer to her lips. She gave a rejecting sound and turned her face to the other side. The figure gave a grunt and made a sudden grab at her hair, pulling it back, exposing her face and neck.

“Do we have to do this every time?” Her eyes were tearing up. He brought the cup close to her lips, again. She drank.
“Good girl” he whispered and planted a kiss on her wet lips. A tear ran down her cheek.

Submission.