Homeless

There is no title, no indication of when I wrote this, but judging by the inconsistent verb tenses and meh writing, probably in my creative writing group in high school.

Homeless

“Next,” I thought to myself as I put the lid back on the garbage can.  I casucally strolled over a few feet away and lifted the next lid.  The stench of seemed to be a combination of eggs, cigarettes, and diapers greeted my smell receptors.  However, I was immune to the stench now; there was nothing I hadn’t smelled before.

If I sound like some kind of hobo, you’re wrong.  I prefer the term homeless person, a person simply without a home.  It was about 3:3 in the morning and yes, I was going through people’s garbage.  Well, actually, I enjoyed spending time around this certain house so much that I would consider it to be my “neighbor’s” house.  So far, the only items of any value were a half eaten banana, a pair of socks with small holes and of course, cans for refund.

So anyhoo, I was going through my usual garbage when I spotted something sparkling in the moonlight – or rather, streetlight.  I carefully shoved aside the piles of garbage and suddenly stopped.

It was a butcher’s knife.  And not just any butcher’s knife; it was covered in a red liquid and had a faint odor of copper.  Could it be blood?  Maybe?  Could it be ketchup or tomato sauce?  Maybe, but why would anyone cut ketchup?

I told myself I didn’t see anything and just continued on with my routine.