Incoherent mumbling. Shuffling of paper, bottles and rubbish. The stench of bodily fluids; the stringent odor of not giving a fuck. In a dark corner of an abandoned building. On a dark night of the soul. It held him together. Until now. And it was slipping away.

He'd been in a drunk stupour for as long as he could remember. And he couldn't remember. All he had was one thing on his mind. Escaping. The pain. The tragedy. He couldn't face it. As much as he could face himself in any kind of real way. It was all a blurr. As was expected.

The mumbling grew into groaning. The shuffling into things being thrown about. Plastic hitting cement walls and flooring. A trolley being overturned. And now, pains to the thigh. And lower back. Louis didn't realize it at first, but it was him who was groaning and was getting louder with each kick. Someone was close, and it didn't feel friendly.

Not that he'd know what a friend was. His miserable existence didn't allow it. Some of his kind had that ability. To mix with the more social, more normal kinds of folk. But if you couldn't even face the day, how could you see those that were a part of it?

A drunk he was. A thieving no good degenerate. When he needed an escape. Then he was just a shit kicker in the corner of an old apartment building. One of many society forgot. Or who ran away to be forgotten. Louis was definitely the latter.

The pangs got more present, and a voice. A cunt of a voice. Was it his own? He hadn't heard it for an eternity, how was he to know? And was he even here, living through whatever this was? His conscience began to rile, and with it a clearer picture.

"Wake the fuck up you piece of shit."

Not his voice. The one at the end of the legs pounding pain pangs into his ribs. And it was getting louder, or maybe he was just waking up more and more. He was suppose to be out for another six hours. Maybe if he just ignored it, he'd go away.

"Fuckin' get up and give me what you got. I know you got 'em here. I seens 'em."

The fuck was he talking about? Seen what? The thought stream was broken with a knee to the mid section. Pain? Fuck. Bring back the kicking. The delinquent was now on top of Louis. A knee smashed into his soft abdomen as the aggressive alarm clock forcefully threw himself on top. Now came sharp feelings in the face, along with flashes.

He was beating down on Louis, with slow but persistent right drops of a clenched fist to his face. No more talking. Just punches. Over and over again. Not those of a boxer. But enough to smack the lights on and off continuously. Until something gave way. Something unexpected.

"Get off him you!"

It was distant, but it was there. The sound of justice from the lips of Raggy Stan. He made a move and pulled the heavy heap off and they fell back into a tussle. Louis was still no better to do anything. His eyes were swelling, his nose and bottom lip bleeding. He managed to force open his eyes and watch on as the two fought in front of his indoor shanty.

Raggy was always there. Somehow. A non refunded good word as Louis went out to get his next bit of money, or to nick something to sell, or just steal what it was all leading to anyways, the booze. And sometimes Raggy even give him the bottle, some of his own, so Louis didn't have to risk another night in a cell.

And now he was there again. Fighting some punk, on behalf of Louis, because as usual he couldn't do it himself. Not up to it. Unequiped to deal with it. On his own fault. Due to the choice to be non responsible. The two rolled about a little longer, each getting a slight upper hand. Then they both stopped.

Stan was on top. The stranger on the bottom, who Louis now recognized as someone from a floor down. Another vagrant. Who suddenly pushed Raggy off of him and to the side as he pulled himself up and made a dash for it. And as he did the sound of metal hitting concrete rang out.

Even in his beaten and drunken haze Louis would never forget that sound. Like an actual pin had dropped. The knife bloodied with Stan's sacrifice. Louis pulled himself up out of his squalor and shufffed over to Raggy. He dragged with him his blanket. He tucked it under the head of a friendly face and held him close.

"They are in a box next to my bed." Raggy said with a smile on his face, wincing yet all the while forcing out a smile.

"Take them. Let them be the souls to a new life, my friend. Let them take you to where you belong. This aint it. You got work to do."

One last gasp of breath and he was gone. It didn't hit Louis until months later. Three, to be exact. When he sat in a motel room looking at the box. The one he took and left that miserable abyss with, wrapped in a blanket. Nothing else, just his awakened state and the box.

Louis had been clean that whole time. It was an effort beyond what he thought he was capable. But the passing of a kindred spirit, in his own place, set about some changes in him. It opened him up to the shit he was running from, as he had to see that to get to the silver lining in Raggy's death. They were in the same place. His self reflection.

In a way, he believed Raggy was his silver lining. His guardian angel. Sally was his purpose until she no longer was. And now, he had found it again. It was full of cold hard truths, but it was there. Beside and behind his anger and hatred. But it was there.

He sat in the motel room, and opened the box. He'd looked at them many times before. But never had the desire to do anything more. He never knew he wanted to, or needed to. But as he got clean, he got clear. And the past few days it was knocking on his conscience.

These brown boots would be the windows, or doorways to his soul. He was yet to nick one, but the signs were all there. Raggy gave him his soul back, through example of self sacrifice. And the boots would keep him on track. He hadn't nicked one, but he'd driven one. Just one, and that's all he needed to know it was where his shine was.

Louis slipped one on and then the other. He pulled them tight but left the laces loose. So when they flicked about, they'd remind him of Raggy. He thought it again, as he had the past three nights. -With these soles, my soul will soar-. He slipped on his jacket and headed out. Time to see a man about a Ford.