MARCH 7, 1985- Aslan,
I don’t get why people say beauty makes everything perfect. I prefer to go with this phase more, ‘Beauty is pain.’ Everyone wants to be something they’re not, which I find stupid.
The first time I had that same quote experience was when I was eight. I don’t want to talk about it much, except that I’ve been a depressed prick ever since. I’ve tried to feel like everyone else, but it never works. I’m different, in a bad way. I’m too different.
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Currently it’s midnight. I can mostly hear cop cars, maybe one or two gun shots every half an hour, and occasionally yelling. I’m supposed to be an outpost for my boys at the moment. Who knows who’s gonna come over with a gun? Life’s risky in Manhattan, but you gotta live with it.
I’m the leader of a gang due to my street smarts. If we need any help or a decoy, I promise stranger’s that I’d give them whatever they want once they’re done with their work. Usually they get shot, but I don’t mind much. All they wanted were perverted desires.
I eventually hear a low groan coming from an alleyway near where I am. I take my S&W 27 out, flicking the safety switch off. My heartbeat slightly sped up as I quick came around the corner, finding a man on the cold ground, his legs bleeding out. His face was twisted in a certain horror I don’t think I’d ever forget.
But being a naïve teenager for some reason at that moment, I crept down and placed my hand softly on his shoulder. Speaking slowly to make sure he understood.
“Are you alright..?”
All I got was a gurgle at that moment, and than a soft whisper that confused me. Nothing ever confused me.
”Banana Fish.”
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