Ravaged by heroin. Having terrible withdrawal.
People afraid of him.
Filthy, emaciated, clothes in tatters.
How he looks at me when asking for help. His eyes are a pit of ash, but there remains yet a burning ember deep within. Surrounding the emptiness of his gaze is an image of his suffering which is so deep that my own feels suddenly frivolous.
He extends his hand. It is covered in scabs and wounds. I assume it is help he seeks as he cannot speak.
He sits, others move away.
He shakes, hyperventilating, stuck in an endless loop swaying back and forth violently.
I stay where I am. I reach out with my heart to feel him. He is unpredictable, but not dangerous. I cannot help him, but I cannot be indifferent to his being.
Who is he?
Does he have anything other than the dark mistress that has eaten almost all of him?
Can he make the voyage back to the light?
The métro slows, then stops. Stalingrad line 5. His folly ceases immediately.
He rises, he exits.
The doors close behind him.