The Turning Point
Semaj could not remember the last time he had slept peacefully throughout an entire night like a normal person. But by no stretch of the imagination could he be considered a normal person anymore, for he now lived in a world that was going to ruins just as fast as he could arrange it. He had lived a depraved life for such a long period of time that a state of complacency and normalcy had been achieved. This trait was reflected in his attitude and outlook upon life. He was void of societal mores and had sunken to the lowest level of human existence. He lived in a world of his own making, a world where dog-eat-dog ruled the day. Even the manner in which he was awakened each morning was not like that of a normal human being.
His awakening was more of a resurrection than anything. It would begin by a very slow ascent from an alcohol induced coma that had given him a brief respite from a life that was just barely north of total insanity. He would move through different levels of a stygian abyss, pausing periodically to acclimatize himself like a diver does to avoid the bends. At each pause of his ascension he would strain to make contact with something tangible, anything familiar with which he could grasp. But as always there would be absolutely nothing. And he would continue the journey
Physical and mental pain would once again beset him, and he would immediately realize that the effects of the anesthesia he had ingested the night before had worn off and that he was nearing the end of his ascent. His body would begin to shake like a rag doll clutched tightly in the teeth of an angry pit bulldog; and he would begin to sweat profusely and itch terribly in places that he could not scratch. Finally he would pop to the surface of the void, reluctant to open his eyes from fear of where he would find himself.
He flinched, clinching his teeth tightly against the nerve racking grating of tree branches on metal, and he knew that he had spent another night in the utility shed that sat in an overgrown yard behind the abandoned house on Green Street.
The scent of field mice was strong, and he could hear the rodents as they scurried about, squeaking and fighting over scraps of food that he had discarded. The acrid stench of urine cut through the air and the musty odor of mildew exuded from the old quilts with which he covered himself.
His tongue felt thick and fuzzy as he ran it over his upper front teeth, which had the gritty feel of fine sandpaper. The back of his throat was raw, like a fresh burn, and his stomach, hot and feverish, churned and made rumbling noises like an awakening volcano.
He knew it could be no later than three-thirty or four in the morning, because he remembered looking at the clock on his last trip to the K-Mart. It had been eleven o'clock. The monster always roused him every three and a half to four hours. He kept his eyes close, hoping to stave off reality for a few minutes longer, for he dreaded having to face that which he knew awaited him.
His nerves began gyrating like go-go dancers, wringing useless his instinctual responses of fight or flight. But there was no one left to fight and no place left to run. His tormentor and house of torment was one in the same. His breathed wheezingly and his chest rattled like a pebble in a tin can. He started coughing uncontrollably, spitting out globs of yellow phlegm into the frigid darkness.
He was fully clothed, which was how he retired each night, and balled into the fetal position with his hands tucked tightly between his thighs. His lips quivered and his body continued to shake. It was not the weather that caused him to shake, for he was well covered with quilts he had stolen from another homeless individual. He shook because his master demanded to be fed. And if his master's whims were not met in a timely fashion, he would go into a rage and shake him into a seizure.
He was laying on his right side with the covers pulled up over his head, and when he rolled onto his back, his lips suddenly stopped quivering, his body no longer shook and his stomach ceased rumbling. He smiled and sat up quickly. His mouth was no longer hot or dry, and his master released him. It was feeding time.
Between his thighs his hands were wrapped tightly around the extra bottle of wine he had purchased on his last trip to the convenience store. He could not have been happier if he owned the horse that won the Triple Crown or had been the big winner in the ten million dollar lottery.
He fumbled franticly with the bottle's cap before he succeeded in getting it off. He took a long swallow and retched so violently that it felt as if he had ruptured the walls of his stomach. His eyes watered and his nose began to run, and he gulped mouthfuls of foul air in a desperate attempt to keep the precious liquid down. He shook his head involuntarily and saliva flew from the corner of his mouth as he gasped for air like a fish out of water.
It seemed like an eternity had passed before his stomach settled and he could breathe normal again. Tears rolled down his dirty cheeks, and the pain of what he had allowed himself to become fell upon him like a heavy shroud. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and inadvertently uttered the most serious prayer he had prayed in his entire life. He sent up his prayer to a supreme being he had long ago decided was deaf and blind, a supreme being he had long since divorced.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" he sent forth. "Please help me!"