The Inside Looking Out
the water wash over me as I thought. The pillow beneath my head
stopped the sand tangling in my hair. I blinked away the tears,
hoping that someday things could change, and everything could be
Every day here you wake up knowing
that this day could be your last. Every day here is like a war,
with every soldier at the front line fighting for the same, if
slightly tinted, pointless cause. Most day's handfuls of the
soldiers die, only for more to step forward, with the same
pointless fate as those both before and after them - each mind
drowning in the same, meaningless, bitter, hatred.
Every day the streets are suffocated
with sirens the piercing echoes as they drive past etching
themselves into the deepest part of your brain, thoughts creeping
on and on through the complicated corridors of your memory as the
fear swoops down, striking out with sharp talons that's tattoo
your skin with scars.
Every day, the same consistent
question hangs above you: Who's next? All around there is death,
following you around like a shadow, merely waiting for your last
breath while others just watch on. People about you cry rivers
for the dead.
The eeriness of the unknown keeps to
the shadows and every time the darkness falls you find yourself
crying tears of forbidden joy and wonder for being alive. In
these familiar streets, seventeen people die every day, caught
sometimes in pointless riots, or in fights they have always tried
to hide from.
Never a day passes without death or
sirens, and if five minutes bathes in pure peace and silence you
start to worry, and amazingly start to miss the familiarity of
Nobody blinks at this anymore; it's
a daily routine that spins in vicious circles. Streets here are
divided by gangs and races, territorial and violent and murderous
just because they can be and because they are trying to hide
their fears by cloaking themselves with reputations.
Each street is littered with
symbols, gang motifs, marking where one territory ends and where
others begin. Mostly there are fights and brawls, caused by so
These fights carry on for a while,
people from all sides ending up dead or injured. Some streets are
avoided by most, walked upon only by residents who are thankful
that they have been left in peace, some unfazed by the lingering
death and the dark clouds that hang above the cobbled roads and
Gangs are everywhere, patrolling
'their' streets, becoming known. In most gangs are kids,
following in the troubled footsteps etched onto the earth by
older brothers and sisters. Each gang has a leader - someone who
everybody looks up too. People in gangs are marked, tattooed or
scarred in a certain way.
Nobody can back out... they are
Deserters. Deserters are hunted down, and found dead in an alley
somewhere on another piece of the territory. Cases don't last
long. The big guys at the top keep their hands clean, turn a
blind eye and keep their stubby noses out of what they know jack
Other guys go crazy, the fear or
violence finally driving them first class into Quack houses. Most
don't last long their either. Rarely, but more frequent now, the
gang members turn to suicide. Too scared to back out right into
cold blood and too scared to stay at the front line. You hear it
around, people going "Capt. Marsh."
It means they're suicidal or too
soft to handle all the crap about them. The ones left are either
too deep to run, or general hard cases: fearless and made of
I'm neither. I wish I could turn
back, rewrite my point of view. But hey - who cares?