I stand flush with the red brick wall behind me, spreading my arms out wide as if I was a bird about to take flight, palms pressed against the wall. My fingers tremble slightly, as I struggle to hold my composure in this war zone. Men and women pass by me continually, some giving me scornful looks, bordering on malice, other looking with sadness. No face showing concern or compassion. A man shields his child's eyes as they cross in front of me. Am I truly so hideous? Does my visage cause harm to children? Apparently so. But, as my father used to say, “Take pride in what you have, and take pride in what you don’t.”
I subconsciously gather my torn old coat around myself, as I can feel the frost coming soon. The precious days of sunshine will now give way to cold, heartless days, spent searching for warmth. The beginning of fall is surrounding us, though there are no trees in this land to signal the change. Imagining trees reminds me of my childhood, climbing trees when angry with my father, or myself. Up high, where no one could see or hear me, nothing but air and calm.
I shake myself from these thoughts as I see two men, young and fresh as I once was, coming towards me with smiles on their faces. The first act of kindness in this cold, cruel land. Maybe even sent by God himself, to give me passage. One then throws a handful of change at my feet. I watch as the coins, shining and glittering, collide with my cracked leather boots and clatter along the sidewalk. I look up and no longer see smiles, but sneers. “Maybe you can afford a life now,” he says to me, as his friend claps him on the back. Now, many things are above my level of comprehension, but this truly vexes me. Sadly, the time to contemplate has passed, and now more pressing matters come up.
Seeing a break in the crowd, I quickly gather up the coins. Not quickly enough, as the next wave of insurgents quickly rush into me. After being bustled around for a few moments, I am eventually sent back against the same wall like a rag doll. I hear the voices in my head, an evil orchestra. They hate you, the voices say, You are nothing. They hiss this into my mind, working their way in like parasites.
I fall to my knees and hold my hands against my ears, trying to silence the voices. I focus on the outside. Footsteps pass by in quick succession around me. Honks from vehicles fill the air. Conversation and laughter is nearby, but just far enough away so that I cannot decipher the words. As the madness passes, my shoulders ease from their tensions, and my hand rest on my knees. My head rolls back against my shoulders. I shiver quietly to myself, and stare into the grey sky above me.
I sit with my back resting on the wall behind me. The sun is going down, and the street becomes less crowded. The people who now walk by never stare at me fully. I am given a quick glance, and then I become a part of the scenery, nothing but a speck of dust on a wall.
A cool breeze flutters down the street and gently tickles my arms. I take delight in this simple pleasure, the gentleness and impartiality of it. The beautiful noises it makes, rushing through the avenue. Leaning against the wall, listening to the breeze, I succumb to sleep.

My dream is colorful and clear, in a happier time. I sit on my father’s lap, as he tells me stories of his life. My enjoyment was not truly from the stories themselves, as they included proper nouns and many unknowns, but his eyes. When he told a story, his eyes would light up in a way unimaginably at even the most mundane topics. I would rub my hand along his scratchy, unshaven beard, and watch his eyes as he told me story after story of his life in the city.
“But why,” I would ask him, “Do they call it the ‘Big Apple’?” He would then, with a playful smile on his face, only shrug his shoulders.
“Oh, but you should see it!” he would exclaim, his eyes lighting up, “The lights, the riches, the populace! It’s the place where a man with nothing can become a man with everything!” It was with these stories, he had filled my head with ideals, and dreams. How I wanted to come to the city of cities and become the man with everything. My heart yearned to see the lights of Times Square, or see a play on Broadway. I was to become like my father one day, with a boy on his lap and stories to divulge.
Instead, I awaken suddenly and violently. The sky is cloudy, and only filtered light passes through the clouds. In my sleep I had moved from leaning on the wall to laying on the sidewalk, using my arm as a rest. Knowing that sleeping on the sidewalk shall only invite kicks from passing drunks, I slide into the nearest ally, tucked between two red brick buildings. Narrow, with only a dumpster and a dead end. Leaning against the dumpster, my scraggly jacket around my front, I head back into bliss.

My dreams bring memories of younger days, when the world was a beautiful and compassionate place. Sitting on a couch, watching television. Eating dinner with my father and brother, as our father gave us riddles to solve, and he would ask us in turn how our day was. The simple treasures I had taken for granted. The sun shining through a tree. Sleeping in my own bed and having my father tuck me in. The peace of living a simple life.

I again awaken from my slumber violently and involuntarily. I can feel the sun on my face, as it spreads warmth in my body. But that is not what has awakened me. I feel hands grip my shirt, and roughly jerks me up to my feet.

My eyes snap open as I see two men, wearing low jeans and baseball caps. One has an iron grip on my collar and he shoves me against the dumpster. My mind goes into an uncontrollable frenzy. The voices in my head start whispering quietly.

“Where’s your money old man?” one of the men screams, specks of spit flying out from his mouth. I open my mouth but I am unable to produce a sound. I instead merely shake my head. The voices crescendo. He yells again, but the voices yell louder, blocking his screams. I attempt to cover my ears, but the other man strikes my hands down. The voices in my head are now a wailing screech, flowing through my mind like molten lead. The men’s faces warp and change. They scream insults and curses, as their faces morph into demons. They look at me with with red eyes filled with hate, as they continue to bombard me with abuse. Their faces change into my father’s, but he is not the father I know. He sneers like the young men from before, as he attacks me with change. I cannot hear his words, but I know what he says. I can see the disappointment. The voices now shriek louder than I thought possible. I try to break the grip of this demon to close my ears, but the more I struggle, the tighter it’s hold becomes. One of them then strikes me in the stomach.

I look up to the heavens, but I know better. Not even God has the want to save me. God has had his time, and has never shown.

I can feel the talons of the demon on my throat, suffocating me. The voices beg to be released from their cage, as their roars reach an unprecedented level. Involuntarily, my mouth opens and I feel myself scream. The demons eyes fill with panic, and they bellow in anger as they pummel me, yet I feel no pain. They throw me to the ground and strike me again and again and again. Yet I feel no pain. As my eyes shut I dream of my childhood, and my father and my bed, and I make a final request to God for no more unwanted awakenings.