The Gangster.

The Gangster.

“I used to recognise my self, funny how reflections change..”

The radio plays what my mind’s too numb to think about any longer. Guilty steps on concrete floor, the air coarse with remorse. I’m chasing after myself.

“It doesn’t matter any longer”, I think, as I turn into the abandoned back alleyway just like you always had. You said you liked the rawness of the place, how it didn’t try to look pretty like the rest of the world. Never caring for your pseudo wisdom, I’d roll my eyes in return.

“I can’t go on any longer.”

There’s too much of the past, of you, here. 

Besides the constant ringing in my ears, I hear nothing else. Not even that wretched radio. Almost as if the world has been put on mute while I drown in your distant, lost voice.

“Fate is cruel, fate is cruel, fate is cruel…”, I hear myself muttering. They say if you say a word long enough, it loses its meaning. Well you know what?

They lie.
No matter how long I spend, determined to put myself in pain, nothing can match what you did.

Nothing can match the lights on your face as the sirens wailed and the wind blew, before you were swept away from us. For us.

For me. 

I sit with the wall behind my back. A wall with numerous posters, stuck not-so-neatly. I’m sure the people to have stuck them must’ve been in a hurry. I’m sure because I know. I’m sure because I was one of those people. I’m sure because the day we stuck them, you were the happiest I had ever seen you be. I remember you gushing praise over the bold text reading The Gang of the People, on top the red background, above the sub heading:

To Kill The Monsters Is to Help The Helpless

I don’t know why you were so sure of calling yourself The Gangster. Probably had something to do with the hours we spent watching The Godfather on my shabby, 18-inch tv. You were the kind to jump off cliffs if you had to and still be able to convince people to jump along. Nothing mattered; nothing but monsters and the helpless, nothing but being more than human, nothing but telling me that if the world split in half and you had to swim to the other side for me, you would.

The abyss was your playground and I watched you run away.

Pulling my hoodie on, I wipe the tears of my face just as it begins to rain, as if the sky sheds tears in harmony. Under the shadow of the posters and our broken dreams, I pull out a piece of rolled up, newspaper clipping from my front pocket.

It is all I have left of you.

Dated August 22nd, 2015. Exactly a month ago.
Your face with those determined eyes and a hopeful, farewell smile.

There is but one highlighted sentence. I try not to read it.

And yet, just like every day, I still do:


“Fate is cruel but we can be better”
-Amanda Cray.
(RIP 1993-2015)



Had to write the first chapter for a supposed book called The GangsterEnglish homework can be fun.


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