Locals are calling them martyrs (young writers short story competition)

Locals are calling them martyrs

The uneven ground would trip most. After years of running, waking, and jogging these cracked pavements, I've gotten more than used to it. I know every pot hole in the road. I know where every curb ends and pavements begins. I know what street corners to avoid when it is dark outside. The cracked concrete slabs that pass as a walkway for pedestrians are not just uneven but stained in many places. A splash of oil here, paint from a spray can there, a dark maroon substance singed by the sun a turned foul by the air, the dark stains of blood.

Stepping in, or rather tripping around viscous crimson gunk is not uncommon here, as sad as that is to admit. There is no safety in these streets. There is never safety when there is guns to add fuel to the flames of gangs that plague the neighbourhood, snatching children from broken homes who have nothing left to lose, taking women broke and tear stained who have nothing left to lose, corrupting people of power and of poverty who have nothing left to lose.

The parasites that lead these vicious packs, care for no one but themselves. They leave our streets in ruin. Bathed in tension, soaked in blood and blanketed with the thick smell of burnt gun powder. I keep walking with these morbid thoughts in my head, past row upon row of cramped flats. The compacted hive of homes allows little space for anything, mazes of one way roads, roundabouts and police taped front doors. one bedroom homes inhabited my three or four at once all draft ridden with dodgy electrics.

It's very much all for one around these parts, everyone keeps to themselves. Familiar faces without names or occupations. Children playing on the front steps until a flustered mother shoos them back into the confides of an unsafe brick structure. All done out of fear. The fear of having to call three number nines and explain to the ambulance worker how a loved one got that bullet wound in their shoulder, or the sting of a steal bladed wasp across there face. Will it be fatal? Can you save them? Can anyone save them?

A reflective vehicle, flashing blue, red and white speeds past me leaving a ringing in my ears. The whirring and whining of emergency services, just one melody to complete my life's theme tune. How often is it that screams and shouts leave a cruel residue in my ears, like the after taste of a particularly bad meal, problem is I'm still waiting for desert. I have learn't to keep my windows shut.

I round the corner towards home, and change direction immediately, I do not wish to be stopped by one of the cloth clad people who spend their days on the floor of the public footpath , begging for change and scattering the cold stone beneath them with broken bottles, and the dregs of half drank Fosters. I will take the next turning home instead.

It is mad to think, if you want my opinion, that from here; the roads of guard dogs the size of cattle, and empty burning bullet shells, merely four streets over are the homes of pet cats named Felix and street sweepers leaving the roads of the rich, dust free for them to drive their Mercedes without a care in the world. How I envy them. Not the money as you may think. No the money is worthless by comparison. My troublesome jealousy is caused by there safety. There protection. leave your BMW unlocked over night it will likely be there in the morning. Lock your doors here however, and your furniture will be gone by midnight.

I open the entrance to my home, walk inside and lock the door behind me, the top and bottom dead bolt thrown in for good measure. The peeling paint in-front of me seems to set something off inside, aggravating my every nerve, and the next thought hits me hard. These streets are the definition of danger, they are tainted with the blood of those lost and the tears of those who cried for them. The next one hits me harder, these roads and pavements will never be safe, not while the people who have the power to change something are sat at home with a cushion and a cup of coffee while someone else washes the car. And the next on hits me head on making my teeth clench and my nails dig into the palms of my hands.