The incandescent streetlight pierces my tired eyes with an intense beam of light. It shines on a spider’s web, a maze of finely interweaved silk. The spider sits primly perched on her web, the dictator of her own little universe. The doorway in which I sit was not too dissimilar to all the others; cold, hard, uninviting. This building had been forgotten; the windows boarded shut, graffiti on the wall. Like me, nobody wanted it anymore. Nobody cared.
The streets of London are hard. So many people sleeping rough, so many people unwilling to help. When I arrived here, I thought things would be different, I didn’t think after a year I’d still be here. The reality has only just set in. I was in denial. But now I’ve owned up to it. It just hit me in the face, like a cold, hard slap. I’m homeless. But not for much longer.
My weary eyes that had once been sharp emeralds have now turned into a murky grey, slowly faded by my ever-growing sadness. My hair sits lifeless, dull and unwashed covering my naked face, protecting me from the harsh world before me. I often see a reflection of myself and don’t recognise the person staring back at me. I own a shaggy, wild beard that looks like it should belong to an animal in the jungle. But I keep it to hide my face; my hollow cheeks and my sunken eyes that resembled those of an evil demon. I look at my red gnarled hand and the dark dirt that stained each of my fingernails; a far cry from my once pristine hands. My skin is rough, cracked and unclean. And then there is the smell. The consequence of not having a regular place to bathe was evident. It is putrid. My own smell actually makes me feel sick. A mixture of stale sweat, dirt and dare I say, urine. I smell like a dead man; which in a few hours, I would be.
I have been contemplating suicide for a while now; but only tonight do I feel brave enough. What did I have to live for? More years of being homeless, with no money, no food, no real human contact and no prospect of that changing. At least I have control over when I will die, and that cannot be taken away from me. The hardest decision is how to die. A gunshot perhaps, quick and easy, or a stab wound or maybe an overdose. However, none of those were quite right; unlike most I want pain. I wanted to feel something real, deep inside, a real feeling, as I have forgotten what that is like.
I hate the daytime. The harsh sunlight showing the world for what it really is. I often go further into town at the daytime, hoping that strangers will be kind enough to donate their loose change. How rare that is though. Instead I’m greeted with other things. Some people just stare, with eyes like daggers. A cold, hard, loathing stare that bores into me, cutting me up second by second. Another common response is plain ignorance. Pretending that I don’t exist, their brains blending me with the background. However, by far the worst response is fear. To see honest apprehension in someone’s eyes because of yourself is not a pleasant feeling. Yes I am homeless, but does that make me a threat?
People don’t understand what it’s like being homeless. Most think we deserve to be here, and that its revenge for what we’ve done in life. But I think it’s a cruel injustice. Outsiders make presumptions. They think we’re all druggies, alcoholics and violent thugs. But I’m none of these. I just happen to have a bad run of luck, but people don’t seem to- or want to-understand that.
And then there’s the violence. In the daytime, swarms of hooded youths, buzzing around like wasps waiting to sting a victim for no reason. The name-calling. ‘Down and out’, ‘druggie’, ‘thief’, ‘loser’, ‘alcie’, ‘waster’, and they’re the nicer ones. However, at night it gets worse. As well as the gleam of light from the nightclub, we also get the people. Drunken people. Violent, vicious, victimising thugs. Their breath stale with alcohol, their eyes wide and dilated, sometimes they’re even paralytic. Their low booming snigger, their face wrinkled in disgust. I should be the one disgusted with them, rather then the other way round. Turned into the devil by alcohol. Ironically, the women are often dressed in ridiculous red horns, tail and trident. It nearly makes me laugh. Nearly.
Pitter-patter, pitter-patter. How I do hate the rain. Cold, wet, depressing rain. When I was little, we joked about raindrops being God dropping a glass of water. Now I realise maybe instead of that, it is actually God’s tears, each unforgiving drop shed for every sinful act committed in his once perfect world.
The nights are always the worst. I am so cold, so hungry and even more lonely. Every night is worse than the last. I’m not now strong enough to do this any more. I look up to the dark winters’ sky, which was as empty as I feel inside.
Cold. I don’t think that’s an adequate word to describe how I feel. My lips have turned an icy blue, my face as white as a ghost. It’s so cold even the trees are shivering right down to their roots. I often watch them. The cold wind gripping the trees tight with an iron vice. They are naked, stripped of their leaves by the almighty gale.
Hunger. I have only memories of food. I remember the succulent smell of home cooked dinner, made with warmth and love. My stomach rumbles like a prowling tiger as the chip-shop door opens. The mouth-watering aroma hits me in the face and floods my nostrils. I am so hungry my bones ache and I can feel my stomach dying, pining for just one chip. I can feel the bittersweet sensation of the grease laden potato in my mouth, the texture as light as a cloud.
Loneliness. How often I wish for someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to understand. At least in the day there are people around, but at night my only company are the stars.
And then it hits me. I have decided how it will happen. It is time. I slowly get up from my doorway, and stumble towards the local corner shop. My legs have suddenly turned into jelly and are buckling under the weight of my wiry frame. I find myself in the shop, clasping a bottle of bleach, with thoughts spinning round in my head making me feel disorientated. I somehow manage to stagger towards the checkout. I’m greeted with the broad smile of a short, curvaceous woman, but as soon as she set her small brown eyes on me, it dropped. It was replaced with a look of revulsion.
“That’s one pound twenty-four” she utters in a monotone, matter of fact voice with a tone rich in boredom.
I stand there, spaced out; she must have thought I’m high. I have beads of sweat slowly trickling running down my forehead. I freeze, my body a bag full of nerves. I reach into my large trouser pocket, and place several coins, turned dull with rust, on the kiosk.
For the first time in a year, I don’t bother waiting for my change. I just have to get out of there, go back to my doorway, where I can finish my life and go to a better place.
Poison. I want to know the feeling of it slowly sliding down my throat, burning everything it passes. I can’t wait to get it over and done with. As I walk back to my doorway, the building watch me, as if they knew what is going to happen; the windows being their beady eyes, and the flick of a light switch being a blink. I soon find my own eyes swelling up with floods of tears. Is this what I really want? To die in a doorway, after slowly poisoning myself with bleach? My palms are clammy, dripping with sweat. I find it hard to grip onto the bottle of bleach, the key between this world and the next. I can smell the apprehension in the air; so thick you could cut it with a knife. I approach my doorway, where my fate will be sealed.
And then I see her. Sitting slumped over in my doorway. Her eyes hit me first. They were unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Big, bright, blue eyes. An intense contrast from her ghostly complexion. They pierce my body like scissors through paper. She seems almost like a grand antique doll, her flowing golden hair, her skin like fine porcelain, her eyes as big as saucers, her thin exquisite lips painted on with the finest crimson paint. How could such a girl be homeless? She did not belong here, amongst the dogs of the underworld. She was a diamond in the midst of rough rocks.
And then she smiles. A smile that could speak a thousand words. It lights up her face like a sunrise. It captivates me. The image imbedded in the back of my mind.
And then she speaks. Her voice like a summer breeze. Soft-spoken with perfect grammar, an absolute contrast to the rough cockney slang so common to my ears. Her words are like a song, echoing round my mind.
And then we touch. Her skin made of velvet, so soft and smooth. A stark contrast to my rough, cracked skin.
Before I know it, the sun has risen. The colours in the sky so intense, a canvas coloured with the finest paints. The time had just flown by. I had forgotten about everything; my troubles; my worries; the bleach that sits beside me, discarded like a piece of rubbish.
She is my guardian angel. Send from above to save me. She is flawless. The way she looks. The way she speaks. They way she smiles. The way she makes me feel. I have never felt this way before. I feel alive. My body shaking with adrenaline. My heart beating like a pounding drum. My head is racing. I am dizzy with hysteria. She is perfect. More than words could describe. And then it hits me. I’m in love. True love.
And hey, what do you know, I was right, last night was a celebration! Just not how I expected it. And so I’m going to leave the bleach. Leave my troubles. Leave this old life behind. I am a changed man. From today it’s going to be a different life. You never know, from now on I may just live happily ever after…
Creative writing analysis
I am going to do an analysis of my story to show what literary devices I have used in my story and show how they were used.
My first device used is the metaphor. This is where you say something is something else. I have used this many times throughout my story. An example of one of the metaphors used is ‘My weary eyes that had once been sharp emeralds have now turned into a murky grey, slowly faded by my ever-growing sadness.’ I have used a metaphor because it gives imagery to the reader and is more effective than just describing his eyes.
My second device used is the simile. This is when you describe something as being like or as something else. One example of a simile in my story is ‘swarms of hooded youths, buzzing around like wasps waiting to sting a victim for no reason’. This -like a metaphor- give the reader imagery and is more successful that plain description. The reader sees swarms of hooded youths in their mind and gives them a better understanding of my story. I have many examples of similes in my work.
Another device I have used is personification. This is where you say an inanimate object has in someway got human character features of emotions. I have used a few examples of personification in my work. ‘It’s so cold even the trees are shivering right down to their roots... The cold wind gripping the trees tight with an iron vice. They are naked, stripped of their leaves by the almighty gale.’ As well as giving imagery to the reader, it makes it feel like it’s very, very cold, because trees are shivering.
A different device I have used is a chiasmus. This is where you say something and then reverse what you have just said. An example of this is my work is ‘I’m not right for this world, and this world isn’t right for me’. Its effective is to re-iterate the point because you are effectively saying the same thing twice and so it sticks in the readers mind that he is not right for this world.
I have also used sentence structure in my story to try and make my story effective. It makes the reader more interested. Instead of always doing the same size sentences I have tried to vary lengths and in some occasions have used just one word in a sentence. An example of this is ‘Turned into the devil by alcohol. Ironically, the women are often dressed in ridiculous red horns, tail and trident. It nearly makes me laugh. Nearly.’
I have also used sentence structure to vary the pace and the mood of the story. ‘She is my guardian angel. Send from above to save me. She is flawless. The way she looks. The way she speaks. They way she smiles. The way she makes me feel. I have never felt this way before. I feel alive. My body shaking with adrenaline. My heart beating like a pounding drum. My head is racing. I am dizzy with hysteria. She is perfect. More than words could describe. And then it hits me. I’m in love. True love.’ I have used all short sentences in this paragraph. This is to make the pace quicker and to show the homeless man is feeling different and gives an entirely different mood to this bit of the story.
Following on from that, I have also used monosyllabic sentences. ‘And then it hits me. I’m in love. True love.’ This is when all the words only contain one syllable. It is used to make it simple to the reader the facts. It isn’t fussy or complicated and just shows that he is in love. If it was in a more cluttered sentence this fact may be missed.
I have also used anaphora in my story. This is when you repeat the same few words to give it rhythm and to remind the reader of the other bits and to connect the story. An example of this is ‘And then (I see her, she smiles, she speaks, we touch) I have use this device to connect the paragraphs together by given it a common start.
