My Inmate

How could someone with such an angelic face have done something as horrific as he did? He seemed like the type who probably asked his mother what color underwear he should wear. Ray Johnson. Even his name seemed ordinary. I snorted at the irony of his name. The infamous charming man who'd killed his two-year-old son. No wonder he was divorced. What wife wouldn't leave a man like him? But how could she leave her son to a man like him when she knew how psychotic he was? What kind of mother leaves her son to a man like him? A toddler who couldn't even speak properly to defend himself from a grown man? A man who was supposed to protect him. Again, it was none of my business. I wasn't a great person myself. Ha, not even close to great. Here I was judging someone else while eyeing a loaf of bread. I promised myself I wouldn't do it again. A loaf of bread wouldn't hurt though, would it? A loaf of bread stolen often would. But this didn't change the fact that I hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours or more while roaming the crowded streets of Houston, Texas looking for a job. I slipped into the supermarket. Naturally, I headed toward the baking aisle to pocket some bread. I tried to not look at the vacant cash counter. I wondered how much cash it had in there. Thinking about the eviction notice I was about to get from my renter didn't help. This life was still much better than living with my mom, I reminded myself. I hated her regularly changing sleazy boyfriends and the shit they pulled. I could live on a meal a day but not return to that nightmare. Any place was better than there.