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Written for HT100 Challenge #94: Mirror Image
That will never be me for I will never grow old.
He used to say it when he was a kid, looking at some old fart cramming underneath layers of cardboard to keep him warm under that bridge he used to take shelter with the rest of them.
I will never be him for I am my own.
He used to say it.
He used to think it.
He *believed* it.
And then, he thought it again, years apart.
A fight breaks out.
Some nigger and one of those dumb spics fighting over tits. And he's right next to them, frail old body getting shoved into the Plexiglas walls, one of them punching him in the stomach by mistake.
He bends over, suffocating, panic spreading through his body like an electric shockwave.
I will never be him for he is not me.
He remembers that old guy under the bridge, holding his knees up to his chest, trying not to freeze. Trying not to breathe.
Or maybe to remember how to breathe.
That will never be me for I have forgotten how to breathe.
Or have I?
Please send feedback to Ralu.