I wait there by the roadside, counting cars, praying that one will at least stop to give me food.  I’m so hungry, it’s been days since I last had a scrap to eat.  A tear slides down my cheek as I remember what I have lost, but that only makes me feel angry.  I only have a little water left in my body, so I can’t waste it on pathetic, self-pitying tears.  It won’t help me anyway.  I think again about the day I was thrown onto the streets.  I remember that day very clearly.  I had lost my husband months ago.  He committed suicide, and I’m convinced it’s all my fault.  He was the core of my existence.  After that, everything started to go downhill.  I had sold that old house we used to live in to buy a cheap apartment, but the money from that house only lasted so long.  I worked all day and all night to keep a decent amount of money in my pocket, but it wasn’t enough.  I stayed away from home for days sometimes, drinking and gambling away my money.  I figured I didn’t have much to live for anymore, so I thought it wouldn’t matter if I was cast out onto the streets.  I was so stupid then.  Even those heartsick moments were better than starving out here on the streets.  Every time I had to pay rent, I somehow convinced the landlord to give me another week or so, but I guess he got tired of it.  Even after all the extra hours of work, I couldn’t afford to pay for everything.  The landlord cast me out, leaving me with nothing but a few dollars.  I don’t have long to live anymore.  My body will slowly stop functioning, and then I will just be a pile of bones on the sidewalk.  I suppose, in a way, both me and my husband committed suicide like some cruel parody of Romeo and Juliet.  The only difference is, no one will mourn me.  I borrowed too much money from me friends and family back when I lived in the apartment.  They’ll be glad to see me go.  I think it’s a fitting way for me to die.  A sort of penance for my sins.  Repentance.    

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