On paper, I did not exist. To my name there was no birth certificate, no bank statement, no insurance policies and no criminal record. It was as if I did not exist. But I did, I know I did.
My name, as I know it to be, is Drifter. People would walk past and whisper, 'There goes Drifter', so Drifter I became. No one ever taught me to interact with others or what streets were nor the delight of electricity. Most avoided me; and the few who did not soon shunned me as I did them.
I lived in what everyone calls a shack, a tumble down house that is on a rock out-crop far off shore. Tide keeps everyone, save me, away; although a few have tried but they soon learn I will not answer politely, if I answer at all.
My home was not typical of those in these times of 1931. All that I needed I had scavenged from shorelines and shipwrecks. But all mismatched and broken items had their own stories. Take my sofa; a half missing and stained with salt water and on the armrest, a family of limpets. I found that item after, due to the receding cliff face, a hotel fell into the sea.
Driftwood made the walls to my home, the roof a salt corroded tapestry of old iron sheets once used to hold together a ship. Odd nicknacks littered every room, all of which I had scavenged or crafted myself.
I did not work. I had little need to. I gathered my own food from the sea, my warmth from fires and clothes from anything I could get my hands on.