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Sometimes love should be doused in gasoline and set alight. I craved love; I craved life. Standing on the streets of pain, selling a magazine not worth its salt. Times were hard then, my heart was stretched to breaking point, and I was soaked through by the daily rain. These streets weren’t majestic. There weren’t any striking colours or fashion statements, but people holding callous hearts in their thin chests and wallets full of dirty money.

Standing on the corner painstakingly counting every coin, I’d feel alive if I had enough for one dishonest drink. My life was caught in thick darkness, my dreams were put under lock and key, so drinking cheap beer would let me open them up. Dragging myself to the store didn’t take much effort as I wanted to forget how to feel, how to think. Thinking brought out the worst in me, thoughts edged me closer to the cusp of suicidal tendencies.

Soaked through and chittering, I’d walked to the store that night as always. Through the bustle I’d see many people drunk to their bones, taking a stab at the light, trying to make sense of the world under the influence. All looked like monsters to me, some sat on the pavements and some fought for unknown reasons. Alcohol does that, it empowers you and gives you strength, a potency that crumbles after that first punch to the face.

I swerved passed these louts and sinners looking straight on at the store. It was lit up like a Christmas tree; it looked tacky, but it had the cheapest beer. I walked into the store that night, fixating on what beer could do the most damage. The place stank of bleach and cigarettes. I picked up a four-pack and stared at some sorry looking sandwiches in the fridge. Contemplating eating, I quickly shunned that notion.

I picked up a chocolate bar instead and strolled slowly to the counter. Halfway there, I heard a conversation these two guys were having in the middle of the store.  

‘’You do it.’’

‘’No, you do it.’’

They sounded young, and they were planning something, I could sense it. I didn’t look straight into their shifty eyes. After a few minutes, one of them went up to the counter and started demanding money and alcohol. The man behind the counter drew a gun but was too slow. There wasn’t much left of his head.

As the blood-soaked the newspapers, I ran into the back room and locked the door. They banged on the door with authority. My whole life was flashing before me as they did so. I was innocent, craving a drink to stem the voices in my head and to blank out the unforgiving memories.

‘’Open the door.’’

‘’Just leave him.’’

‘’He’s a fucking witness, we can’t.’’

The torment of the ordeal hit me like a speeding train. Frightened, I looked around for something to retaliate with. There was a small window up at the back of the room, but I wouldn’t have fitted through. Again, my life flashed before me. I wanted silence, I wanted to be placed into solitude where I could drink the night away.

Through the small window, I could see flashes of blue. Then sirens played out.

‘’Fuck, it’s them.’’

I heard these young warriors lose their venom. They knew their hold over me was going to be quickly halted.

I stood and waited. I smelled burning and heard glass smashing on the floor. These two culprits screamed for their lives and fought the police.

It all went quiet. The silence I needed was implemented at the most drastic of times. I opened the door into bloodshed and fire. Bodies lay on the floor, splinters of glass in immobilized hearts. These two upstarts built Molotov cocktails and threw them at the police.

I had to leave the blood and the fire and go into fresh air. People surrounded the store and were shocked by what unfolded. Like love, the hate doused in gasoline was set alight and free.

I hurled up my guts on the road.

I then opened and sank that elusive beer.

THE END


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mark McConville is a freelance music journalist who has written for many online and print publications. He also likes to write dark fiction.


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