Rock Bottom
The cold seeps through the thin metal of my car, biting at my skin like tiny needles. I curl up in the driver's seat, knees to my chest, arms wrapped around myself, but it does nothing to stop the shivers. The old blanket I salvaged from a dumpster last week barely holds in any warmth, its fabric stiff and stained. My breath fogs up the windshield, a reminder that I'm still here, still breathing, still sinking.
How did it come to this?
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the memories rush in anyway. The job I lost. The rent I couldn't pay. The eviction notice taped to my door was like a final nail in a coffin. The so-called friends who disappeared the moment I needed them. My world crumbled one piece at a time until I had nothing left but this rusted old car and the echoes of my own failures.
A lump rises in my throat. I swallow hard. No tears. Not now.
The streets outside are quiet, save for the occasional siren in the distance. I parked in an empty lot behind a gas station, far enough from prying eyes but close enough to run inside if I needed to. Sleeping in the open is dangerous. I learned that the hard way when some drunk pounded on my window a few nights ago, laughing as he rattled the door handle. If the lock hadn't been held—
I don't want to think about it.
My stomach growls, a dull ache twisting inside me. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. The last of my money went to gas, and even that's running low. If I don't find a way to get some cash soon, I'll be out here on foot.
Desperation claws at my insides. I've tried everything—job applications, day labor, even begging outside grocery stores. People look right through you when you're homeless. Like you're invisible. Or worse, like you're a stain they wish they could scrub away.
I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair is tangled and dull. I look like a ghost of myself. A woman who once had dreams, who once believed she could make something of her life. That version of me is gone. She died somewhere between the eviction notice and the first night I spent in this car.
A sharp knock on the window makes me jolt. My heart slams against my ribs. I scramble upright, pulse hammering as I peer through the fogged-up glass. A man stands outside middle-aged, with a thick coat and rough features. My fingers tighten on the door handle, ready to bolt if I have to.
He gestures for me to roll the window down. I hesitate, my gut screaming no, but he doesn't look like a cop or some creep looking for trouble. Against my better judgment, I lower the glass an inch.
"You can't stay here," he says, voice gruff but not unkind.
I swallow hard. "I'm not hurting anyone."
He exhales sharply. "This lot belongs to the gas station. The manager sees you here; he'll call the cops."
Of course. Another place I can't stay. Another door slammed in my face.
"I'll go," I murmur, fingers already fumbling for the keys in the ignition. But when I turn them, nothing happens. The engine coughs, sputters, then falls silent.
No. No, no, no.
I will try again. The same result. My breath quickens. The battery's dead. My last bit of safety, my last shred of control, was gone in an instant.
The man watches me struggle, his expression unreadable. "Need a jump?"
Shame floods me. I don't want to owe anyone anything, but I don't have a choice. I nod stiffly.
He disappears for a moment, then returns with jumper cables. As he hooks them up, silence stretches between us. I force myself to breathe slowly and evenly. When the engine finally roars to life, relief crashes over me so hard I almost collapse.
He closes the hood and wipes his hands on his coat. "You got somewhere to go?"
I hesitate. Lie or tell the truth? I don't know why, but the truth slips out before I can stop it. "Nowhere."
His gaze darkens. "Shelter's down on Fifth. They have beds if you get there early enough."
I've been to shelters before. Packed, noisy, and sometimes more dangerous than the streets. But maybe I don't have a choice anymore.
I nod. "Thanks."
He doesn't say anything else; he just nods and walks away. I watch him go, his broad shoulders disappearing into the night. A stranger who helped, expecting nothing in return. The kind of thing that used to be normal but now feels rare.
I sat there for a long time, the engine humming beneath me. I should drive to the shelter. I should get some food. I should do something, anything, to pull myself out of this pit.
But all I do is sit there, staring at the road ahead, knowing I have nowhere to go but forward and no idea what waits for me at the end of it.
The night stretches on, long and cold. The hunger gnaws, and the loneliness suffocates. But I grip the wheel tighter, jaw clenched.
I'm still here.
And I'm not giving up. Not yet.