Whistle Me Yellow

Lifting only his upper half up from the ground Patrick peered through an opening in the broken zipper and first saw the bed of brown rocks and boulders that accumulated under the bridge, then, saw the puffs of pillowed virgin snow that contoured the shores of a white frozen river. The rocks were cold, edged and their sizes smothered him.

Throughout the night, the rough polyester and nylon material had hooked into the sleet coated rocks; by the time Patrick opened his eyes the bottom of his tent was matted and threatened to rip apart when he shifted only slightly, guess I slept without shivering this time.

At this point it was no longer the thirst, neck aching or stomach cramping that kept Patrick up, pains like these would subside, hopefully. The discarded arthritis pill bottle that Patrick found was doing some good with numbing; sleepless nights were now the doings of howls and whistles from the January gusts that ricocheted above his tent. The same tune was sung every time a gust blew through.

Men were not created equally and only a handful were born teething at a silver spoon, wealth and luxury bound. Patrick was not one of them, neither was he someone that could pass up the offer for a loan that would have seemingly settled his waist-deep debt. How long has it been? When did he get his first eviction notice? How much longer till they found him? Till they ask about the money? These questions would waft away as soon as the first early morning winds panged at his tent’s walls. Shivering and convulsing inside a sleeping bag, Patrick retracted back to a shrunken posture, desperate to maintain the heat radiating from his core.

So warm, god! the warmth feels nice. Patrick cocooned himself entirely and folded his body into itself, only exposing his forehead out of the sleeping bag which showed some strands of his thinning brown hair and the dirt tangled wrinkles above his brows.

The bridge protected Patrick from sleet, rain and freshly falling snow. The bridge gifted him with thrown away leftovers, abandoned clothes and loose change. The bridge punished him with large noisy cars, spit and a choir of mother nature's winter breezes. The hole of the bridge mimicked a woodwind instrument, however, it only knew how to sing the same melody and it came out as a high pitch shrill.

The coldness was compact and all-encompassing, the icy grasp compressed around Patrick’s emaciated figure, its pressure like being suffocated under the ocean. However, even above the surface Patrick feared apex predators, sharks. The sharks that would sniff out his footprints. The sharks that raided his parent’s home. The sharks that would terrorize his friends until they sung. The sharks that stood above him in the food chain would follow Patrick’s trail until it led them to their borrowed promises.

They won’t find me; I won’t let them find me, who knows where they’ll leave me to rot. Once they see I’ve got nothing to give they’ll leave me for the dogs and crows, alive. My parents, they don’t know where I am. My parents can’t- won’t squeak. My friends will endure for me, they will. I just need a few more months to get the money.

The tent that Patrick lay in would not hold up against the rocks for long. He would have to find buy another one. Impossible, utterly undoable. Patrick spent days begging for change enough for a packet of band aids, let alone a new tent.

I’ll die of hypothermia before I even get a chance to try and nick one. Patrick’s knobby knees grated against each other, his protruding elbows dug into his hollowed stomach as he brought his slender fingertips up to his mouth; exhaling his hot breath onto them, he welcomed the warmth. Everyday Patrick clawed and dug his way out of death’s frigid grasp. What was I gon’ eat today? He never knew where his next meal would come from, a garbage can maybe? Or perhaps non-empty plates that hadn’t been cleared off a restaurant table just yet; the latter was a rare lucky occurrence. As Patrick felt himself doze off while reliving the sensation of chewing, there was a hard push at his lower abdomen; a push that he could not ignore.

It would probably feel really good, I could be warm finally.

No, it’s pathetic. I won’t. Patrick quarreled with himself. Embarrassed at the mere idea of letting himself do that.

No one is watching, no one would be able to tell. I’m absolutely freezing, don’t you want to stop shivering? The cajolery of the offer tempted him.

I could just get up and then go, besides, I’ll be even colder afterwards. I don’t need to let myself stoop so low.  

His survival and dignity clashed like oil and water, the two could not function if the other remained intact.

The voice grew demanding. You don't drink nearly enough to be able to do this. Go, just go.

I can’t. Patrick snapped back, but he still couldn’t find the words to defend his stubbornness.

There was a now an urgent tugging under Patrick’s stomach.

Look at yourself. Open your eyes and realize the reality of where you sleep. Don’t try and cling to any kind of self-respect you think you have left...

Patrick felt the great piling of pressure building up in his bladder.

…leaving behind the life that you screwed up for the people around you to deal with, you can’t even go up to them to say sorry you’re so scared…

The eminent outcome of releasing the pressure was irresistibly enticing, Patrick thrashed up and down on his side to suppress the grotesque allure.

…what? Does doing this make your pathetic past too real? You’ve done worse to others why not indulge yourself some more and JUST GO!...

Tensing up his stomach, the strain was painful. Patrick was trying desperately to fight the coaxing and seduction of finding temporary comfort within his own filth.

…you really think you lived a life worth protecting the dignity of? You make your friends and family stick it out just for the sake of you. Are you really that righteous?...

The tantalizing appeal of warming himself diffused into Patrick’s mind and tent. The prospect of pitying himself so that he could feel warm, forgetting honor and throwing away grace. The body wants to survive.

…You’re a coward and an even greater one for thinking you’re not…

You're right. The worst has already been done. Patrick stopped clenching.

He felt himself release. Letting go and reluctantly embracing his shame; Patrick felt the hot urine travelling up his back and trickle down his thighs. He heard the sounds of the fluid leaving and bleeding through his pants eventually forming a puddle in the circumference of his hips.  

The icy gales swooped down from far away mountains toward the urban city in frost bit zephyrs. It sliced across the solidified lakes and its sharp movements were abruptly stopped by the bridges. The hollowing of the overpass flung the wind against its walls, then whistled it's number with the rhythm of keys and notes, causing a ruckus right over Patrick’s head, right over his 'bed', his ‘home’ and now his 'washroom.'

Patrick’s fingers and thighs still shook, but it was no longer because he was cold. He was sobbing and choking on his own mucus, his hot breath was bursting out in violent hiccups from inhaling the cold air. Patrick’s tears and spit curved into the caves of his cupped palms, the same way the melodies curved with the mold of the bridges.

Patrick raised himself up from the ground, his stain made it feel like there was a hole in his pants, completely exposed and vulnerable. The winds coldness grew tenfold as the dampness clung to Patrick’s pants and so did the pungent stench. He strained his neck over his shoulder and looked down to the place where he was seated. A circle of the sleeping bag was darkened to a grey and so was the tent’s bottom.

his mind was blank as he lowered himself back down onto his side; he still felt the stain but it was now cold to the touch on the nylon and polyester. Patrick once again peered through the broken zipper and basked in the scenery of an untouched, white frozen lake and the frail virgin white snows

Inevitably, the aroma was one that reeked of a poor diet and dehydration, Patrick opened the broken zipper and fumbled out of the enclosed space. The tent was already thinning from the constant friction and puncturing of the sharp boulders. Patrick felt apprehensive about checking to see how close the tent was from giving away completely any day now.

The silence and emptiness that Patrick was experiencing was a momentary high, a distraction that would not last.

Walking over the rocks he felt the sharp inclines and angles stab through his shoes at the balls of his feet. When Patrick made it to the frozen shore, he turned back to see the tent resting under the bridge and his footsteps which plowed over the now non-virgin snow. To take his mind off the sharp slicing of the wind and keep himself company, Patrick whistled along with the symphony of the bridge. Having it memorized by heart, Patrick harmonized the exact tunes and notes of the short melody. He could hear the song playing behind him in the bridge; he stood and let the wind hit against his face.

Alright, I’ll let it dry out here for a bit.