The pusher, a young white gruffy teen, shrugged, “Look, I ain’t judgin’, aight? I’m jus’ sayin’ you look like shit,”
The young man sat staring up at the pusher, rubbing his forehead.
“What your name then?” the pusher asked.
The young man looked, again, at the red, swollen, puncture marks in his right arm, and rubbed the inner-thigh of both his legs; all tender and burning, and that is when the notion struck him,
“I don’t know,”
“Whaddya mean, you don’t know. You don’t know your own fuckin’ name?”
The young man stood up, and now the fear of his realization struck him. His heart skipped, and he swallowed, “NO, I don’t..”
“What kinda fuckin’ drug are you trippin’ on, man?” the pusher asked, “You been dealin’ with Latinos? Them fuckahs have some bad-ass shit that will fuck you up,”
A flash hit the young man. A gunshot. The pusher bleeding in the streets.
He stumbled back, “You’re gonna get shot,” he blurted.
“Yo man, where do you get off..”
“Just leave me alone,” he ran.
A flash.
Damien