This city is plagued with lust and hatred, honey, you don't
want to be here. Go home. Just get back on that bus and go
home. I looked at him. He was in his forties, though he
looked older, his hair was too long, and very messy, and he
didn't shave for a while now. Go home, he told me. Honey, he
called me. His trousers were torn I the knee, his voice
hoarse. That smell hitting my nose, that mix of sweat and
puke and piss. Combined with the regular smells of central
stations, that smell that I was so used to, that thick
string of gasoline and oil, rotting food and burnt potatoes,
and that memory of alcohol and cigarettes, all made me
dizzy. And I felt that slice of bread that I ate that
morning, the first one in days, as if stuck in my throat,
climbing up my neck, the faces around me blurred into a mass
of questions. Ya alright, sweetlips? My hand impulsively
raises, trying to hit someone. I get up, slowly. I didn't
even notice I fell. I stumble to a wall and lean on it, lick
my lips and feel the sour taste of blood and dust. He's back
now, that man. Go away! You can still go! This city is not
for you, you need to go. The sickness climbed again up my
throat, and salty tears filled my eyes I looked at him
through the screen of tears and opened my mouth to speak,
closing it fast before I start crying, and he get closer to
me, his arms open. Come on, I'll help you, just... get out
of here fast, alright? I burst into tears. I just wanted to
meet you again, dad, can't I come and meet you?