If your eyes are not on the people, their knives will surely bring you down….

People generally beginning writing things down to ease their own mind. It was a way of keeping peace to their soul or somehow absolving their wrong doings. I have no such want to do either of those things. I simply want to tell it as I see it through my own eyes.

One month ago, I set my foot off the bus. I came back to Hathian. I ask myself everyday, why? I have no response, other than perhaps it is the masochistic voyeur in me. Secretly longing to smell the harsh breeze of corruption or feel the stinging slap of neglect? Whichever the reason, here I am. Alone. It wasn’t my best idea, nor will it be my worst, but all in all I have to make the best of it. If I do that, then possibly some good can come out of it. Each day in this city is a new, but often repetitive journey. Yes, ironic isn’t it?

I pass time bartending in the Twister. It isn’t the best of jobs, but the people sometimes make up for it. The first day I worked, I came across a neurotic, but seemingly welcoming girl. She had strands of blue laced within her blonde locks. Her signature to set her apart no less. We fell into easy conversation and over the weeks have become good friends. Though she has struggled and become a lackluster carbon of her former self. Frail, thin, sickly, and often I find it hard to connect with her. I leave her to her own device, finding myself ignoring her moves now. I seem cold, heartless, and possibly I am. I just can not shoulder the death that is coming for her. Albeit, she is not my only acquaintance. There are many more that rumble through the doors of the TT.

Each day I watch silently, sometimes unknowing what I stumble across. The people here in the city barely take notice and for that I am grateful. Last night’s mortifying events have changed how I view this city. It is not enough to simply watch anymore, but to voice what I have seen. If it isn’t for anyone’s eyes but my own, I shall feel a little vindicated. A man was burned last night. His fate was sealed with the simple nod of a man’s head. The gesture of his hands. But first, before I digress, I want to move on.

The smell of human flesh burning is not something one forgets. The singe of hair and fat bubbling beneath the surface. It can be likened to a piece of bacon frying in a pan. It is no different, unless of course you count the person being alive as the difference. The acrid smoke lingers though, more than you could imagine. It stays within your hair, clothes and nostrils, even after showering. I couldn’t get it out even after drowning myself in perfume. I probably smelled like a two bit whore from Main street, but I didn’t care. Honestly, the sights from the night before were enough to turn even the hardest of stomachs. A man nailed to a cross. Railroad ties forced into his wrists and ankles, probably leaving no room for repair. I assume the man’s recovery will be long, if indeed at all. What is worst is that after he lay there bleeding, the fluid was poured on the wood at his feet. He was lit up quicker than a grill on the fourth of July. The men, to my surprise (Insert my sarcasm..) were ones I had seen around town. Even talked to from time to time. One in particular I did not care for, but the other, I had hopes to get to know. Now as I see him in a different light, I feel grateful that I do -not- know him as I wanted.

I guess I should be thankful, that I only watch instead of participating. Thankful that this single piece of paper is my outlet.

(Written in the run down apartment next to the head shop. Her parchment was an old Bob Marley poster. The edges frayed and the back of the poster yellow with age.)