IN MEMORY OF DAISY

The alleyway was pitch black. The streetlights at each end were the only sources of light. They were like beacons, sending out the safety and comfort of light to those who were in the dark. Yet now I needed the shadows; it was my only hope of escape. From the end I’d just come, the end which clearly showed my path with little droplets of blood, one beacon stood. The other end was another beacon, one with unknown danger, but hopefully escape. My blood could easily lead them to me.  The dark could keep me safe.

I kept up my pace along the cracked concrete underfoot. My breath, materialising in front of me, was coming out in ragged gasps which heaved and shook my whole body. My soles ached, the butt of a knife digging in.

 Something was wrong with me.

Something inside me, but I had a steely resolve to live, to see another night, or to at least survive the Marconi Brothers.

My right hand was cut and bloody. Shards of glass and dried blood cacked up along one finger. It slowly dripped crimson into the cool night air around me, before becoming another chink in the chain which would lead my pursuers straight to me. My other hand was clasped to my side, where a blood stained jumper was all that anyone around would see.

The steady bang-bang off my feet on the ground reminded me of the emptiness of the alleyway. The echoes off the walls and the blowing of the wind through bits of trash were chilling, but the account of what I had done was worse, much worse. 

Poor Daisy. I couldn’t believe that society could be so cruel, so harsh.

Life’s a bitch, then you die. That was my motto. The world was cruel to me, and then it was all over. No matter how many times you get up again someone will always be against you, trying to ruin it all. The friends you meet along the way are all going through the same thing, but then you meet someone great, someone terrific. And then they get taken away. Life’s a bitch, then you die.

I reached the end of the alleyway and came bursting onto the street. All around me cars were honking and people were living their lives. There were more streetlights – more beacons- further along the footpath. Each one would put me in the light for all to see. How many would question my hand? How many would ask me for my parents?