G R A N D - T H E F T - A U T O
" U N S U N G - R E Q U I E M "
- - - - - P A R T - O N E
by : a_mourning_sunset@yahoo.com
* * *
Prologue
* * *
I didn't know what to say.
I lay there, dying. Rotting myself into the cement. Simply laying helpless in a pool of my own blood; barely clinging to life. Words danced around the tip of my tongue like a Kuruma and it's owner fish-tailing their way into a junkyard / obituary combo.
But still, nothing came out.
I couldn't scream, I couldn't moan, and no thoughts drifted through my mind. No flashback of my life, no lifetime of memories speeding before my eyes like you see in a cheap cartoon. I didn't get to recap my first kiss in high school, or how I dropped out only weeks later. There wasn't any hollywood / kodak / bullshit moment. Because that's life; the point is, it's not hollywood. You can't fuck your life up the ass and expect it to come back together minutes before the credits roll.
There are no credits.
I guess the first thing that came to mind, as I approached death from a gunshot wound to the chest, was that I had shitholed my life to hell. Which is where I had booked passage to from the moment I chose a life of crime.
I heard tires squeal, as if cars were fastly approaching my location. The second thing that came to mind was that They had come to finish their job. They would spare me some of the pain, and add another bullet to my collection. One lodged in my chest, and they'd seal the deal with another to the head.
"Fucking mafioso fucks.", I muttered as loudly as possible. I'm sure that registered no louder then a whisper though. But give me a break, I was fucking dying.
I saw lights. Head lights? Cop car lights? The lights of heaven? Perhaps it was just light eminating from the fires of hell, fastly approaching to claim my soul? I don't know / don't give a shit. At that point I closed my eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness. And then, it happened. The flashback bullshit. On my own accord though. I let my mind scan over my life.
I started to think about what I had done wrong. It seemed like hours, that I let my thoughts drift over my life's story. I'm sure it wasn't longer then seconds, though.
I don't know if you care. I'm sure that if you don't care about a bottom of the barrel urchin like me, that you would've stopped listening 2 sentences in. I'm sure, even if you are listening; you still don't care. You've got that perfect life. You're busy worrying ab. Busy, making sure nobody touches your perfect car. Warning your kids not to wander into neighborhoods like the kind me and my friends grew up in. I'm sure you would correct me on my improper grammer just now, if it weren't for the fact that you noticed the 9 I'm packing.
But, what about me? Nobody gives a fuck about me, goddammit. I'm just another prison / death destined thug who deserves to be rid of; like every other welfare mom, junkie, killer and pusher on the streets.
I'm like you, though.
Just because I live a life twenty times less than the worth of yours, doesn't mean I'm not a human being. Call me a product of my environment, call me trash; just hear me out before you decide.
I've got a story to tell.
" U N S U N G - R E Q U I E M "
- - - - - P A R T - O N E
by : a_mourning_sunset@yahoo.com
* * *
Prologue
* * *
I didn't know what to say.
I lay there, dying. Rotting myself into the cement. Simply laying helpless in a pool of my own blood; barely clinging to life. Words danced around the tip of my tongue like a Kuruma and it's owner fish-tailing their way into a junkyard / obituary combo.
But still, nothing came out.
I couldn't scream, I couldn't moan, and no thoughts drifted through my mind. No flashback of my life, no lifetime of memories speeding before my eyes like you see in a cheap cartoon. I didn't get to recap my first kiss in high school, or how I dropped out only weeks later. There wasn't any hollywood / kodak / bullshit moment. Because that's life; the point is, it's not hollywood. You can't fuck your life up the ass and expect it to come back together minutes before the credits roll.
There are no credits.
I guess the first thing that came to mind, as I approached death from a gunshot wound to the chest, was that I had shitholed my life to hell. Which is where I had booked passage to from the moment I chose a life of crime.
I heard tires squeal, as if cars were fastly approaching my location. The second thing that came to mind was that They had come to finish their job. They would spare me some of the pain, and add another bullet to my collection. One lodged in my chest, and they'd seal the deal with another to the head.
"Fucking mafioso fucks.", I muttered as loudly as possible. I'm sure that registered no louder then a whisper though. But give me a break, I was fucking dying.
I saw lights. Head lights? Cop car lights? The lights of heaven? Perhaps it was just light eminating from the fires of hell, fastly approaching to claim my soul? I don't know / don't give a shit. At that point I closed my eyes, drifting in and out of consciousness. And then, it happened. The flashback bullshit. On my own accord though. I let my mind scan over my life.
I started to think about what I had done wrong. It seemed like hours, that I let my thoughts drift over my life's story. I'm sure it wasn't longer then seconds, though.
I don't know if you care. I'm sure that if you don't care about a bottom of the barrel urchin like me, that you would've stopped listening 2 sentences in. I'm sure, even if you are listening; you still don't care. You've got that perfect life. You're busy worrying ab. Busy, making sure nobody touches your perfect car. Warning your kids not to wander into neighborhoods like the kind me and my friends grew up in. I'm sure you would correct me on my improper grammer just now, if it weren't for the fact that you noticed the 9 I'm packing.
But, what about me? Nobody gives a fuck about me, goddammit. I'm just another prison / death destined thug who deserves to be rid of; like every other welfare mom, junkie, killer and pusher on the streets.
I'm like you, though.
Just because I live a life twenty times less than the worth of yours, doesn't mean I'm not a human being. Call me a product of my environment, call me trash; just hear me out before you decide.
I've got a story to tell.