Trouble with the sweet stuff

Blue and red lights reflected from the large windows, wet from the rain pouring down. Pouring down in my eyes.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to feel the wounds. In some movies the anti-hero seems to be in pain, in others he doesn’t feel much. I just feel warm blood spreading across my chest. Guess I’m in the latter movie.

‘No money, no disco for you.’
I told him I could get the money the next day. There’s this jewellery store where the owner always stays late. I can take on that geezer.
‘No money, no disco.’ the muscle beside him repeated. ‘You heard him.’
If we were still in high school I could have taken him on. I was one of the strongest back then.

Okay, I can it feel sting a little when I cough. Probably coughing up blood too. The sirens blare in the distance, hear the voices from curious folks better. Sounds like some are disgusted, some laugh, some surely think I got what I deserved.

Had a good time in school, played football for fun and coach said I had a shot at becoming professional. Expected a scout at the next game. Went out with the guys, made out with one of the hottest girls, twisted my knee in a tackle during the game. Goodbye fun.

Five forty-six. I wonder if that time on the clock above will stick with me even in death. I can feel the second hand bounce each time it goes to the next. Thud. Thud. Thud. Counting down my time. I wonder if I will see five forty-seven.

The army. Always the army when there’s no other job to be found. Went there with two friends who had no prospects either. At least we could do something to be proud of. Fighting those who try to take away freedom from others, oppress the weak, harm our friends. Addiction to antidepressants got me kicked out. Killed one kid too many to need them.

Blood must have gotten up my nose. The smell drowns out the smell of the wet asphalt. So does the taste. One cop moves next to me, kicking my gun away like a regular Fred Astaire. Loved those black and white movies. Would have loved to see my dying scene in black and white, with just the colour red filled in.
Yes, you can shout at me, talk, whisper. I’m not listening.

Came home, dad disappointed with me, mom sad but still loving me unconditionally. Tried working a straight job. Found out mom was dying. Cancer. No money for decent treatment. Found dad drunk in the garbage at night.
Found the guy with the stuffed wallet at the right place. He found a huge bump at the back of his head.

Yeah, keep the people away. Too interesting to not record it on their mobiles and put it up on internet. Another bunch of views and likes for their fifteen seconds of fame.
Someone threw a rock at me.

Went back into the hole with the meds after mom died. Couldn’t give her one last hug or word when she died while I sat out my time for assault. No last apology to her for fucking up my life. All that was left were tears falling on her stone. Dad never sobered up since. And the meds. Moments of dreaming the world away. Moments of dancing with my head in bright, colourful lights.

Traffic is heavy around this time. The ambulance won’t make it in time. The old man did. Never expected him to be a quick shooter. Should have looked closer at the navy picture on the wall.
I never got hold of the money, but I did get my disco lights.

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About scifurz

Science fiction, fantasy, furry, horror stories, drawings and ideas, tech ramblings
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