I still cannot sleep. The streets stench, there is an awful smell of fish. I vomited yesterday in my alley, and I was too tired to clear it away. Yet I did not sleep.

This morning, the police came to move us away. We shuffled away, our heads down.

There is a fellow I hang with out here. He is a crack addict, his name is Wesley, and he talks all the time about getting a job and finding a gal. He looks at all the women and proceeds to hold long discusiions about their features.

Sleep, sleep, Sheep, dance, shoot, run, freedom, swim .... home.


Smacking the bitch

I grabbed her and punched her in her face. She looked at me, tears brimmed up and ran down that ugly face. So I hit her again. I lifted my chair and slammed it against her head. She fell to the ground wimpering. I kicked her in her stomach, made a fist and slammed it against her stomach.

She began to wail, a loud and dragging siren. I hit her again, this time hard. I heard teeth crack. So I hit her again.

Her shirt ripped, and she stood up to run. I watched her. She moved, but slowly. Then her left leg buckled, and she fell towards the ground. She held herself up with one arm, pulled herself up and took two more steps. Then both legs buckled and she fell to the floor. She wimpered pityfully, and it filled me with rage.

I pulled out my pistol and pointed at her. But my hand shook, and my pistol was not steady. I never shoot when my arm shakes, it means I cannot deal with the consequences. Years of training made me put back the back the gun.

I wore my bullet proof vest, slung my ak47 with the small blood stain across my back, stuck the pistol and left the room. She was no longer making a sound, and there was blood coming out from her head. She was face down on the ground.

What a diff'rence a day makes
Twenty-four little hours
Brought the sun and the flowers
Where there used to be rain

I walked slowly out of the house, poppa sat on his chair and watched me. He spat into his tin, brown tobacco. His teeth were brown and dirty, and I hated him, I hated them all, I hated the country, I hated New York.

I walked to central park, took out my phone and selected Jacobs name. It beeped a few times, and an answering machine came on. He was not in, and I had done what I was not allowed to do. I had called him.

What a diff'rence a day makes
There's a rainbow before me
Skies above can't be stormy
Since that moment of bliss, that thrilling kiss

I felt the cold metal tapping my back. I felt the familiar weight of a gun against my back. I saw the trees, and imagined I was back home. But there was this heavy weight pressing against me, a weight of many cages, the crushing stare of hundreds of people. There was no freedom here.

I called a cab and went to the airport. I bought a single one way ticket to Jamaica. Name: John Younes. I walked out, and threw the ticket on the way out away. Hundreds of cameras, hundreds of uniforms. This evening, agencies all over the world would be handed pictures of Mr. Younes, new pictures, current pictures, photos showing how I looked now.

Trying to board a plane would be the same as walking into prison. I'd disappear, and I'd never be seen. I'd be somewhere, in some country, I'd be in isolation, I'd answer different questions with the same answers every single day, and in 10 years I'd be raving mad.

I walked and walked, and the people got darker and darker, and the city lights became brighter and brighter. Some boys tried to sell me coke. I bought one of their coats, large and torn. I entered an alley, took a large plastic bag and filled it with scraps of nothing. I dropped a pistol into the bottom of the bag.

I made myself a small hump in my coat, greased my hair with oil from an old sardine tin, dusted my face with sand, and filled a small bottle with water. I put the bottle in a paper bag and swigged at it.

I went out to the boys I had met an hour earlier, and I asked them for a dollar in a slur. One kicked me, and I fell to the floor whimpering. I dragged myself up and walked away.

My large phone is stuck in a sardine tin, but I can still type with it.

I entered another alley, where some crackheads were sitting, and I joined them. I took out a small bag of flour I had made, and proceeded to smoke it. Some bitch offered me smack, but I refused it.


The death

I have a half-written entry in my draft pages. I cannot finish it because I'm not normal. I'm failing, the past few days have had me doubting my sanity, doubting my control, doubting myself.

The latino girl is lyingin my bed and watching me. She knows I do not love her, yet she continues to love me unconditionally. She watches me read local papers on the internet, waiting for the article that will tell me that they have found the dead bodies. I do not find it, and my fingers tremble the more everyday.

It is hot, and I'm sweating all day, it drips and drips, and rolls over my lips, and tastes salty. Like her tears yesterday night, and the night before that. I licked them away in my perversion, the vampire in me feeds on their emotion, fear, pain, hope, joy, I come in and feast, grovel in their attention.

Oh, it is quiet in here. Listen well, listen close. Nothing. Not a sound. Then the gentle beeps that signal my phone. Ligh beams shine from it, lighting up the room and lighting up my eyes. I grab at it, and do not hear the deep voice of a man in control. I hear the nasal whine of a chinese deivery man.

Jacob, call me. I'm in trouble.

The cuban girl smiles at me and lazily stands up, her clothes falling from her. I look away, and I dislike her. I only feel lust for her, and I wish she would simply go away after we had slept together. She is boring, she is irritating, and I hate it that she loves me.

The mirror shows me my face, unkempt beard, red eyes and a weak mouth. I'm losing my nerve, and what I observe in that mirror is a death. My death.