Izoztutako haizea bezala

Death is a one-syllable word, as is fear or dread. It is 8pm. Someone shoots a gun. A young woman runs out of a drugstore, she mounts her bicycle and rides off. My father’s breath… Five steps to my bed… The smell of tobacco. A woman fits a hose to the exhaust pipe of her car and closes the door. Someone warns you that you are in danger. A police siren sounds in the distance. Let’s see who can stand the pain for the longest time, as we did at school. The first time I stole a bike from a kid… I suck, just so. My bedroom door opens, and I just want to vanish in the night. You robbed me of my childhood. I would have loved to play, to run, to laugh… A bullet, just a bullet and it would all disappear. Today should have been an ordinary day, but it was not. There are seven steps to the rooftop’s edge. I like rooftops.