Carol sighed in relief as she clocked out, with car keys in hand and her purse in the other. She had around an hour to commute home and the GA 400 traffic wasn’t going to be pretty. Perhaps she should order delivery instead of cooking for her family.
Her husband would be just getting off work and probably get home before she does. Their two teenagers were probably already home. All of these thoughts were running around inside Carol’s mind as she got into her car and pulled out of the parking lot.
She sent a text to her husband while stopped at a light.
“Do you want take out tonight?”
She made her way to the on-ramp of the Downtown Connector which would eventually take her to 400. She turned on the radio, let her mind wander as she danced in the flow of Atlanta traffic during rush hour.
Oddly, her husband never replied. She didn’t text the kids since she was driving so she figured she’d ask them when she got home.
45 Minutes Later.
As Carol drew closer to her exit, she noticed lights and sirens behind her. Several firetrucks screamed by as she pulled over. She said a quick prayer asking God to protect whoever those trucks were going to rescue.
She watched as they took her exit. Still no reply from her husband.
Carol took her exit and as she drove the rest of the 10-minute route home, she realized that the fire trucks were taking her route. A knot of worry began to twist her abdomen and she told herself that everything was sure to be alright.
Carol, who worked a corporate job in downtown Atlanta and lived a normal, suburban life, found that everything wasn’t alright. Her life would be forever changed that day.
As Carol turned onto her street, policemen stopped her and asked her where she was trying to go.
“I’m trying to go home,”
She gave them her address and the officers looked at one another. She knew then, that something was terribly wrong.
“Ma’am, we’re going to need you to pull over.”
Years Later…
As Carol lay there on the ground, she could taste the familiar burn of whatever cheap alcohol she gorged herself on the night before. Her clothes haven’t been changed in days and her hair was matted. Her body was sore from the cost of that alcohol.
The price of numbing the agony was high. The price of not, even higher.
Around her, other homeless folks were milling about. Somehow, she survived another day on the streets. She’s not sure when she’s eaten last. At this point, Carol has no will to live.
It was so long ago since that fateful day when the fire killed her family and destroyed her home. And every day since, she’s been trying to numb the pain with whatever drugs or alcohol she could get her hands on.
Carol didn’t work, but there were always men around who needed a favor — one of the sexual nature. And Carol would do anything to forget. Carol also knew that one day, she would also be forgotten. And she didn’t care.
Never Forgotten.
I remember when my mother told me about her friend Carol. Her real name wasn’t Carol, but my mother never wanted to share Carol’s real name.
Sadly, Carol died on the streets. She was always nice to my mother, who also lived on the streets at times. My mother struggled with homelessness a lot. It’s a long story, but she went missing in 2007 and I had to find her. It took me around a year. And while I was working full time, we both became homeless because I couldn’t afford an apartment.
My mother told me Carol’s story. Carol was on her way home from work. She prayed to God when she saw the fire trucks only to realize that her prayer was too late. This destroyed her faith, her life, and eroded her will to live.
