They continue to carry you, your legs flopping back and forth in a fruitless effort to propel yourself.  They lead you down the interior stairs and out the front.  You cover your eyes and pinch them shut as cloud filtered sun strikes you like a bolt of lightning.  The officers set you roughly on the stairs and walk back into the building, leaving you there, clutching your comforter and pursing your eyelids tightly to fend off the intruding light.  Several individuals file in and out of the building carrying various pieces of your personal effects. Your rent-a-center peices get loaded on a trailer and the rest they pile at your feet.   The pile grows into a mountain of haphazzardly placed junk.  Pieces of your clothing occassionally get swept up in the breeze and tumble down the street.  A few passersby ask you if you are getting rid of this stuff.  You don't bother to respond, you just wave them away with your hands.  Some keep walking and others collect one or more pieces and continue on their way.  You dont care one way or the other.  The clouds begin to sock in a little heavier and it begins to rain.  Your pile of belongings starts to shrink slightly as it becomes waterlogged.  You pull the comforter tighter around you, but eventually the torrents begin to soak through your filthy stinking barrier.  You lift your weary body from the curb and make your way to your car.  There is no need for a key, it has long since been stripped and looted.  You pull open the back passenger door and climb into the car, pulling the door closed behind you.  You stretch out on the bench seat, using the comforter to shield the rain that keeps blowing in the broken windows and you pass out.  

 

     You wake up some time later.  The sun is still in the sky, but just barely.  Your head is pounding.  For a moment you are unclear of where you are.  You glance around and soon recognize the decrepid interior of what once was your car.  You sit up and look out the broken window,  On the curbside, you see a small pile of your belongings.  Most have been taken by onlookers, the rest sit in a rainwater soaked pile.  You watch, emotionless, as the wind tears the top off an old shoebox and old family photos strip from the box, one at a time, tumbling down the street.  You climb over the front seat and fish an old half eaten sandwich from the floor of the passenger side.  Some nourishment is better than none at all.   You quickly eat the pathetic little morsel, pulling the bits that are too hard to chew from your mouth and chucking them out the window.  You curl up on the backseat and pass out again.