A month later he'd fallen asleep in the car that picked him up hitchhiking.
When he'd first hopped in the car, the driver told him he usually didn't pick up hitchhikers and wasn't going to stop for him either. But then he thought that a murderer would at least try and make himself look presentable so people would pick him up. According to that logic, since he was so scruffy and destitute looking, that meant he wasn't a murderer so it was ok to stop and pick him up.
He blinked and pondered on this for a few minutes, then agreed that that reasoning did actually have some twisted sort of sense to it.
He sat there listening while the old black guy chattered to him. There was silence sometimes too, but it was always a comfortable, easy silence. In fact, the driver reminded him a lot of the old man at the park. He liked him. So when the driver asked a few questions about him he found himself telling the man the whole story. The man was silent for a while, then commented that he sure did have himself in a pickle alright. He sighed, agreeing.
He fell asleep in the silence that followed and dreamt of another memory.
* * * * *
He was standing in the foyer, a bag on the ground beside him. He was a kid again. There was a man in front of him, looking down his nose in disdain at whet he saw standing there. He had to tip his head back to look up at him. The man was saying how much of a disappointment the boy was and that he'd never amount to anything. He and his mother were sick of having him around. In short, they were cutting him off, kicking him out, and they never wanted to hear from him again.
He nodded in understanding. Also with a small amount of relief. He didn't like living in this house with them either. But still....
He picked up his pack and walked to the front door. He opened it and stepped outside. As soon as he was on the opposite side of the threshold, the man slammed the door shut with a finality that deafened.
* * * * *
He jerked awake, trying to catch his breath. He felt the old guy's attention of him even though his eyes were on the road. He could hear the question the other man wanted to ask and decided to answer it. He told him about what he'd dreamed.
The old man seemed to struggle with this new information. He was finding it hard to believe that anyone could treat their child like that.
He told him that it was ok, that he was having trouble with it himself.
Although, no that he thought about it, it would help explain a few things that had been puzzling him. If he had been tossed out of home that young and had no where to go, he would most likely have become a homeless street kid. That must be how he had learnt all those pick pocketing and surviving-on-the-street skills, and likely a whole lot more things he just hadn't remembered yet.
He found he had gained a satisfied feeling of a mystery solved. He thought he quite liked that feeling and focused on that instead of the negative that the memory could dredge up.
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