A broken society {Friends} - a short story by Berni Albrighton

 I must have become desensitised to the despair around me.

For the past three days we had walked in and around the center of Birmingham and looked on in disbelief at a society that was broken, that was struggling to get through the day, moving within a system that was not just cracked, but shattered into millions of brittle, jagged pieces.

We came upon people lying horizontal on the pavement as if dead. We stepped over legs that were stretched out, the attached torso toppled sideways, eyes closed. 

Young men lifted their clothing to reveal pale skin covered in red spots, others undid their waistbands and with both hands delved down into flesh that seldom saw daylight, ripping at the skin to try and get relief.

Crowds of regular people who had no choice but to put themselves in the same air space, walked from here to there, trying to avoid eye contact, wearing an invisible sign that said ‘Don't look at me, don't talk to me’ All the while trying to avoid the addicts and the no hopers who would stumble and bump into them, some looking for a touch of human contact. 

The city, where tens of thousands of people moved through every day resembled the set of a post apocalyptic film.

 We were in a world where everyone but us had inhaled a substance that poisoned the brain and slowly sent you crazy. The weak and the vulnerable would succumb first.

Paranoia was the indicator, followed by manic episodes of delusion and then a long, never ending decline into utter despair. 

Clothing for the affected were browns and greys and blacks, colours that wouldn't show the dirt. Meagre scraps of food were distributed daily by relief workers dressed in protective clothing. The affected were at the very bottom rung of a short ladder. If the powers to be had their way they would just leave them to die where they sat, but they had to be seen to be doing something, however small.

Moving through the crowds, large groups of youths shouted and swore.

Deliveroo bikes sped at breakneck speed.

Girls sashayed in skin tight clothes, false lashes and hair extensions.

The evidence of multi faiths walked in their varying attire. 

The unaffected elderly were chiefly ignored. 

“Help me, won’t someone please help me” was the repeated cry of a young man

who looked no more than twenty years old. He was propped up against a piss stained wall, his hair matted and his face creased with dirt and cuts. He held out his hands, as if pleading. 

I avoided his eyes.

I walked past him as if he was no one. 

As if he was beyond help.

I carry his image in my mind. 

It's there now as a reminder, I wish it wasn't.

I find myself imagining his life before he ended up on the streets.

I give him a warm home with food and a comfortable clean bed. 

A wardrobe where clean clothes and shoes are kept.

I give him security and love from family and friends.

I give him a peaceful mind.

In reality I gave him nothing.