Alternate MC

I rummaged through the dumpster, hands feeling for perhaps a tin of canned food or maybe the pleasant grooves of a coin. It had been nearly two months since I started living on the streets, with no money, no car, no home. In the beginning my pride refused to let me rifle through trash or beg, but you know, an empty stomach fixes that up pretty quickly. Over the course of a few weeks, I'd managed to adapt well to my new life, establishing a camaraderie with local bums and managing to secure patrons who regularly donated to me in exchange for small favours or out of pity. Resourcefulness was one of redeeming qualities.

Why didn't I just find a job, you ask? Well, there's this pesky requirement for most jobs, which is a residential address. I had attempted to write Freedom Park as my home, but the receptionist tore up the application when she saw it, saying they didn't need 'smart alecs' for the job. So there. It wasn't all bad when you got used to it, but I worried that I would get used to this life, that I would stagnate, not ever trying to improve my life, resigning myself to this fate. That I would forget my anger, my resentment, my hatred, and move on.

Of course, you'd want to know how I ended up in such a state, where my family was, or even my friends! Well, they're part of the problem. Even now, the thought of them makes me sick, the scars from the pain of their betrayal throbbing violently in my heart. I swallowed, bottling up those emotions, keeping them under, for now. A time would come, and they would pay.