Chapter 2 - Angry and in the streets

I rifled through boxes of memories that smelled of a past I tried to forget. I threw old sports trophies and ribbons to the side as dust collected on my fingers. They were only painful memories of the idiot I was created to be. I picked up the notebook with the journal entries that I had written when I was younger. Misspelled words littered old yellow pages as a general theme of pain and destruction emerged from the thoughts of a 15-year-old. “I hate this… the world sucks because of that… and nothing is ever fair,” were a few opening lines to this prelude of my psychosis with the rich.

The past few hours had given life again to a dormant virus of my past. The seeds of revenge were being fertilized by these unwanted memories of the other person I once was. I thought I had done away with that type of thinking. The last bits of emotion that kept me human were being squeezed from the undergrowth of my being. Revenge was how I handled my problems on the streets and this was all I could think of now. I was trying to deal with this old part of myself that I thought I had left behind, but my brother’s death was bringing it back to life. This old thinking was leaking through my pours and filtering past my eyes. It was making my body shake, while solidifying through my veins. It wanted to blame. It wanted justice. It wanted blood.

I stomped my foot on the concrete floor and yelled to myself to stop these thoughts. I’m not what I use to be. I will probably handle my brother’s death like the rest of society handles loss. I will cry, be sad, blame him for his stupidity, and then go to a fucking diner afterwards and forget. The only part of the past I have of me today are the scars on my body, the half removed tattoos, and the deep guilt that I feel because I left my brother behind in the streets.