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It’s funny when I think back about all that time. All those days… months… years… Just gone. Hell, I can barely recall any of it. Not that many people can remember being wasted. Oh well. It’s over now… Or for now, anyway. Most doctors I went to always asked me when it began. I never really thought about it, but now that I do, I say it started way back when I was eleven and my brother got shot. Now that’s nothing new around where I live, but the thing is he was shot right in front of me. “Took the bullet for me” you could say. He was in a gang. A joke gang. They weren’t serious. They were just kidding around. But then a real gang member moved here. Yeah, he was p*ssed. He got up with his old mates and came to town on us. For two years I had nightmares of it. In my dreams I watched him die over and over. I never told anyone about it because I didn’t think it was important enough.

So then I was thirteen. I had already began stealing my mom cigarettes out of her purse when she was asleep. School was starting to be a *bunny*, and things were more intense. More gang members moved here. They made new gangs. Now we can’t even walk the street unless in a pack. That or we’re gonna get the *bunny* beat out of us. About the middle of the seventh grade, I rallied up my own gang. It started off small. It was new. But it was enough to keep our asses safe. Then one day, one of us was *bunny*ed over. The *bunny* had a smoke and drank all of his mom’s alcohol in the house. He was so over the limit… He went to the store and busted up everything. We haven’t heard from him for awhile. He’s in the joint now. Then a girl brought her boyfriend into our group. Honestly, this is when the *bunny* started up. You know the kind of guy he was. He was the ultimate guy. He got what he wanted. He did what he wanted. He threw a party over Christmas break at an abandoned house out in the woods. It was great in the begining. But then the drugs came in… and the alcohol…. He passed us a smoke, some were instantly hooked. If the drugs didn’t get us, it was the beer. We were all intoxicated. We loved it. Being hung-over sucked… Hell yeah it sucks. But being drunk was great. From that day on we went out to that house every weekend to get *bunny*ed-up. It wasn’t long until we were going at least four days a week. It wasn’t long after than until he brought different drugs in. *bunny*, once those were in we were spending more time there than anywhere else. All our grades took a nose dive. Then the insomia came. We’d lie in bed after going home, scratching at our skin, wanting more. Our parents tried to stop it then. But it didn’t work. The doctors tried to stop us. They locked us away. The cops watched us. It didn’t matter. We just pretended to sober up. Idiots… it would’ve tooken months to get all of it out of our systems… Well, anyways.

When we all met back up at the house (The day the last one of us got out), we got *bunny*ed up again. That was it for the first year. When I was fourteen, it got more intense. We didn’t have money. No jobs, no money. So we took up the five-finger discount. We’d filch all stores. Girls served as distractions, or would hook up with workers to get some stuff. Guys were grab whatever and ditch, and then pick up the girls down the road. Then we’d get wasted. School was packed full of gangs in eighth grade. Most were all talk and no fight. We were serious *bunny* by then. Them? If they talked *bunny*, they’d get a busted mouth. Hell yeah. I’ve made a few guys lose their front teeth. Hell, we used lead pipes. No guns though. They were too much. We weren’t ready yet. By the end of that year, we were basically living in that old house. No one did anything about it though. We knew then that we were killing ourselves. We were whiter than paper, except for those dark marks under our eyes. We were losing weight and gaining attitudes. Our clothes hung on our bodies.But we didn’t stop. We couldn’t stop. We needed it. We wanted it. We’d beat the *bunny* out of anyone for it. High school… By then we were dealing it out to the other for money. We took it and dealt it. We needed to. We needed the money. Everything was so right to us. We were sleeping or getting wasted. Or *bunny*. It was whatever. We’d watch *bunny*ty shows or stare at the sky from the roof like the bunch of dope-heads we were. We should’ve seen it coming. One day, just like the years before, a drive-by happened as we were leaving school. I wasn’t shot, but three of our people did. *bunny*, yeah. We cried. That night, we just *bunny*ed harder and got higher and forgot that they were ever around. At least we bothered to remember the funeral.We were scratching our skin off the whole time though. By my junior year in high school, we had guns. Surprisingly, we actually could use them even though we were near skin and bone. We were barely making it by in school, but it didn’t matter to us. We didn’t think it ended or changed. We thought it was the same forever. We thought we’d always be teenagers. Well, some of us will be ‘cause of early deaths. Overdoses, drive-bys, Shankings, yeah. It all happened. We didn’t make the news or anything. We should, but didn’t. We had our share of drive-bys as well. Though, we were more found of the lead pipes still. It got more anger out.

I personally, got to my senior year. It was then I began to think again, I wasn’t sober, but I could think. I could see what I had done. Five years right down the drain. These were suppose to be the years of our lives… In a way it was right, but it was so wrong. I’d go home a few times. I tried to stay in touch with my family. They were all I had that kept me from completely changing. my mother would always cry when she saw me. She just burst into tears. My little sister would forget about me. But then I’d tell her and she’d say I looked different since the last time. My father.. He’d tell me I always had so much potential and that I was screwing myself up. He said I was on my way on ending up like my brother. Shot. Killed. Dead. I knew he was right. But I couldn’t stop. I could think, but I couldn’t feel. I needed the drugs to get by. I needed to be drunk. Not too long ago, my nightmares came back. Of my brother, you know? I’d wake up in a sweat, more than I already did. But I’d drink it away in the mornings and sleep through class. I guess my father jinxed me. One day I was walking back to the house from what was my home. I wasn’t even a block away when they drove by and pulled out the heaters and fired. It’d didn’t even take four minutes. I was dead.

A shot to the heart and one between my eyes. There were more, but these two killed me. I could see myself being carried away by the ambulance. My family was there, crying over the loss of their child. Here, in my ghostly form I had feelings again. I began to weep. Not for not being able to live, but for what I had done. I was not murdered there. I only died. I was murdered years ago. I killed myself with these drugs. My body was so white. The marks were black by now. I was so thin. It sucked to think that this was how everyone else would die as well. “Do you wish to try again?” A voice had spoken from behind me. “I could take you back to the day you went to the party. You could restart.” I remember the angel speaking to me. The thought was nice. Who wouldn’t want to live longer? But for some reason it came different to me. “No, either way, I would’ve died like this one day.” The angel smiled and nodded and left me there. And here I am. Enternally watching the violence of my people. Watching them kill themselves and others. Brothers against fathers, fathers against mothers. Mothers against daughters, or any combination. It’s strange but, the more I watch, the more glad I am that I stayed dead.
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