Tent, Camping, Woods, Camping Tent, Travel, Vacation

Listening to the hailstone outside, he gave thanks for the tent. Looking up, he made out the shadows of the ice balls cast by the street lamps from the bridge above. The hailstones were falling either side of the road bridge, safely away from him.

Wiggling further down in the sleeping bag and feeling warm drifts of air coming up, he settled down again. Shutting his eyes, he thought about his distant family and their refusal to help. The memory weighed heavily on his mind, like his parents’ deaths.

A car horn blared into the night followed by shouting voices. He awoke, heart hammering and fear spiking through his stomach. He listened, but couldn’t work out what the distant, disembodied voices were saying. Once they had faded and the background noises of the city fell into place again, he took some deep breaths and calmed himself.

It took him ages to fall back to sleep and what little he got was restless. The sound of heavy rain yank him awake as well as his bladder. Sighing, he got out of the warm sleeping bag, put on his shoes and unzipped the tent. A gusty wind sent goosebumps up his skin and caused him to shake. He got out on his hands and knees then stood up and looked around.

The early morning light seemed to have forgotten the space under the bridge. In the gloom, heaps of rubbish, an abandoned metal bin, boxes and black bags with thrown along the sides. There was a strong smell of decay and dampness. He got up and went to the wall, casting quick looks around. There was nothing but raising hills of thinly grassed soil at either side.

Above, the bridge shook as a trunk went passed. He did what he had to do then hurried back to his little camp. He got back inside the tent, tugging off his shoes and wrapping himself in an old blanket to bring the warmth back. He looked at the only things he now possessed and with a heavy heart saw that it was time to move on again.