e was a sorry looking man. He always looked the same, wearing his only set of tattered clothes everyday, everywhere. His toes could be seen through the ends of his mud stricken shoes, and no longer could you tell what color his pants had been when first bought. There were so many holes in them that he may as well not be wearing them at all, and through these holes his brown long johns could be seen. He wore a sweatshirt that once advertised a sports team, but it was now too faded to tell which one, and his fingers stuck out the ends of his worn out gloves revealing his dirty broken fingernails. His filthy face had not been washed since the last time it had rained, and his four inch long beard had gray hairs placed randomly among the brown ones with tiny pieces of trash sticking out of it that he didn't care to remove. A stocking cap covered up his long matted down hair and flakes of dandruff powdered his collar like snow falling from a Christmas tree. A smell like sour milk emanated from him and he reeked of the trash he slept in. He truly was a sorry sight.

He had a name, but he just couldn't remember what it was. Joe? Bob? Bill? It didn't matter though, for it had been so long since anyone had used it. He had no friends; people would rather have him dead than alive. Suicide had entered his mind, and this would have made everyone happy, but he didn't have the nerve to go through with it. Death scared him.

His house was a large, old cardboard box in an alley, situated next to a dumpster and trashcans. He didn't mind sleeping there. The smell he had gotten used to a long time ago, and at least people didn't bother him here, unlike some of his old homes. No one noticed he lived here, nobody cared. He stayed alive by begging and digging through other people's seemingly worthless trash. Digging through it wasn't that bad. He'd found many useful things that people were too naive to keep, like the switchblade that he had found last week. With a little tinkering he had finally gotten the rusty blade to flip in and out.

He made money by begging, which was barely enough to buy the food that he needed. Most places though, he would get kicked out of before he even had the chance to sit down and start to beg. Ever since the new law in the city had been passed it had become harder and harder to beg anywhere, except for the subway station where a kind security guard would let him come in the morning and try to make his money. The guard would even occasionally come by and drop a few coins into his cup. He would sit in the litter at the end of the stairwell, watching people come into the graffiti covered station on their way to work, and when they saw a pitiful creature like him sitting there, they couldn't help but give a little. He loved the clinking of the coins being dropped into his little tin cup, and sometimes people would even drop their unwanted coupons and gift certificates in, but he could never use them. He would be kicked out before he could even reach the front door of a restaurant or store, but he still thanked everyone graciously for whatever they gave.

There was one man, that man, which he couldn't stand. Every day at eight o'clock that man would walk past on his way to work, wearing a long overcoat over his nicely pressed suit, and sparkling clean wingtips, which were always newly polished. His face was always clean-shaven every morning, his hair would be parted perfectly down the side, and his cologne always overpowered his own wretched smell as he passed by him. He would call out to that man, "Please give a little to the poor!" but, that man would only pridefully stride by, shoes glistening in the light, as if he were on top of the world, not giving him eye contact or even the slightest clue that he had noticed that he was there. He would watch that man go buy himself a newspaper, and occasionally he would see him let a wad of money fall out of his wallet. He would nonchalantly pick up the wad, as if showing the whole world how rich he was, and how little that wad was worth to him. He would then pull out his cell phone as if urgently needed and talk on it for an eternity it seemed, to probably no one on the other end; he was just showing off this little intricate toy of his. He despised everything about that man, and his hatred grew every day, as that man would continually stride by with his nose in the air, always ignoring him. The rage burned within. I

It was a particularly cold day that winter, and he had already made a bit of money when that man entered the stairwell. He looked up at the clock, only to find that that man was punctual as usual, entering the subway station at exactly eight o'clock. As he did everyday, he hatefully cried out, "Please give a little to the poor!" His heart jumped a beat as that man turned towards him and looked him straight in the eyes. Had he actually had a change of heart? That man slowly walked towards him with his usual prideful stride, and then stopped in front of him. He held out his tin cup for him, as a hostile grin formed on that man's face, and slowly he stooped down, stopping inches above the cup, paused, and then let a huge glob of spit fall into the cup.

He couldn't believe what that man had just done. His faced turned red, and his muscles tightened, as the rage grew intensely inside him like it never had before. There was no controlling himself now. He quickly snatched out the switchblade from inside his pocket, let the blade fly out, and jabbed him in the abdomen with the knife, followed by a terrible scream. He forced it up his body, stopping at his ribcage, twisted it around a few times, and then pulled the switchblade out, now soaked in blood. There was a great joy in his heart for the first time in a long time as that man hunched over and fell limply to the ground, blood streaming from his mouth and stomach.

He then became aware of the world around him, as people stared, too frightened to do anything, and a little boy began to cry setting off other children around the station. He knew what he had to do as a woman screamed, and another called for help. He quickly darted up the stairwell, weaving in between people. He heard a man yelling for him to stop, but he only ran faster. A siren sounded somewhere in the distance followed by more. He ran and ran, block after block, knocking over people, and halting cars in busy intersections. People stared at him, some yelled, but he didn't care, he had to get home before the police got on his trail. Almost there! Almost there!

He slowed down to a brisk walk when he got within a block of his home, not wanting to attract more attention than necessary. He rounded the corner to the alley, jumped over the trashcans that blocked his way, and dove into the tattered cardboard box, his home. Darkness surrounded him as he closed the flaps, and there he laid waiting. No one would find him here. No one had followed him, and no one knew where he lived as he didn't know a soul. His house blended into the trash- strewn alley; no one would be able to see it.

Night came and he still hadn't moved. It was well below freezing point, but still he must not leave. His hands tingled and his feet soon went numb, even with the rags he used as blankets, but still somehow he finally managed to fall asleep. He woke the next morning with frostbite on his toes and a hunger in his stomach, as he had not eaten since the night before the killing. Still, he must not move. What would they do to him if he were found? He would surely die for no one cared what happened to him and that man was probably some high official or businessman. He must stay there and keep still.

The day went by slowly, nothing much happening. An occasional car would pass by the front of the alley, or a person would walk down it, but no one noticed. He just laid there and thought about what a pitiful life he had lived up to that point. He couldn't even remember his own name or age, only that he was old, far past his prime. He couldn't remember his own parents either, who had abandoned him when he was young. Not even they had wanted him, a lonely outcast since birth. He was a beggar for as long as he could remember, pleading for money and fishing through trash. He had no friends or even acquaintances, as no one ever wanted to be seen with him, and he hadn't had a real conversation with someone in years. A boring life it was. All he could relate to was the perpetual clinking of money in his little tin cup, day after day, year after year. He had been beaten and clubbed by bouncers and police who didn't want him messing up the view for other people. Wasn't he a person? No one cared, no one ever would. He laid there thinking about what a truly pathetic life it was, and slowly another night approached.