A friend knocked on my door. It was 2am, but I wasn't asleep. Like him I was unemployed, and stayed up late reading old spy novels.
When I opened the door I was surprised to see his tired, dying eyes. "I don't want to live no more," he said.
I took him in and gave him some coffee. It was cold out, and all he had on was a spring jacket.
I didn't know what to say, but I started talking.
"What are you saying about wanting to die?" I asked.
"When I sleep, bullies come to me and do cruel things. They hurt me bad."
"But they're only dreams. Pay no attention to them and they'll go away, Johnny."
"Can I stay on your couch tonight. It's cold out and I got nowhere to go."
"Sure," I said. I didn't tell him I had to be out by the end of the next day. I hadn't paid my rent, not since I lost my job. Like him I'd have nowhere to go.
The next morning, I shook Johnny, but one of the bullies must of taken him in the night. The landlord showed no mercy. Said the dead man was my problem, and he wanted the both of us gone. I packed my belongings and left Johnny behind. Even when he died, the bullies couldn't leave Johnny alone.
Poetry Pantry #359
1 hour ago