He awoke with hunger. Violent, oppressive hunger. One that seized the mind, all the mind. One so strong it was impossible to stave off. 

He cracked his eyes open and crooked his right arm until his fist hovered straight above his face. Then he extended his thumb, fore and middle finger. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. One, two, three. Three days he hadn't eaten. [i]Three days[/i] he hadn't chewed as much as a crumb.

He sat up on the bench, sweeping aside the threadbare blanket that warmed him through the chilly nights. His breath misted. All around, the grass shimmered with dew. Branches swayed in the breeze, while sorrel leaves fluttered away. Six thirty AM maybe. He stood up, stretched his limbs. Then he bent over his shredded plastic bag, stuffed his blanket inside, picked it up and shuffled towards the nearest exit.

Beyond the rusty gates, the street was almost deserted. The lampposts cast down sickly orange light on the pavement. A shaggy mutt skittered past, snuffling the ground on his way to his next pee, as a jalopy lurched down the road. It honked, swerved and was gone. Rare shadows strode along, appearing hither and vanishing yonder, like busy ants in search of —

In search of food.

The emptiness of his stomach almost overwhelmed him. He doubled over in pain and inhaled deeply the crisp air that seared his lungs. The pangs finally petered out, and when he could stand up again, he realised how cold he felt. He rummaged in his bag for a last drop of booze to chug or a fag end to light, but found nothing. Sighing, he glanced right and left, crossed the road and went on to Baker street and its boarded up shops. Even the food bank had closed for want of supplies.

Midway, he stopped in front of the window of Harper's, the grocery store — one of the few that survived — and watched his reflection in the glazing, behind the security grille. Disheveled, greasy, dangling hair tapered off into a long, mangy beard that had invaded his gaunt cheeks. His eyes had sunken so much there were hardly visible in their sockets. His skin had become wan, almost translucent. His neck was so scrawny he wondered how it could still bear the weight of his skull. 

He had become a wraith.

He shrugged and carried on. When he reached the centre of Town hall's square, he flopped down, his back slouching against the rough basin of the old fountain. Soon, a new day would begin. A new day, like all the others, spent stretching his arm and begging for what chump change the pedestrians would deign to give him. He hoped that by the end of it he would have racked up enough to buy at least a skimpy sandwich. But he couldn't bank on it.

[hr]

It was getting late. He jiggled the few coins he had collected during the day. How much was that? Five pence? Ten? Not enough to buy a fresh loaf of bread.

He lifted his eyes from his hand to spot a noisy figure tottering from Bridge road with a bottle in hand. He recognised Steve, his former foreman, the scab who had brownnosed the boss to save his job when the slaughterhouse had shut down two years ago. Holding back his revulsion and self-esteem — what little was left of it anyway — he stood up and walked to the drunkard.

"Hey Steve!" he said when he was close enough. "That's me, Serge. Do you remember?"

The other guy stopped and shot him a dumb glance. Serge grimaced and extended his hand, almost reflexively. “Anything you'd give to a famished old mate, buddy?” he asked. 

There was a slight hesitation, then Steve broke into a rowdy laughter. When he regained his composure, he simply looked straight in Serge's eyes and, unexpectedly, spat at him, before shambling off shouting random insults. 

Serge remained petrified watching Steve recede, while the gob oozed down his cheek. 

All of a sudden, he turned around, strode back all the way to his bag, and grabbed an old butcher knife from it. He dashed to the wobbling silhouette who was still braying at the top of his lungs. There was a brief flash of red light as the evening sun glanced off the rusty blade, before it sank into Steve's back, slicing through flesh and heart.

Prisoners, like cattle, don't starve.