Bobby walked down the street. The tar street was trampled on by bustling people and oppressed by heavy trucks. Used needles and condoms liters the streets like décor. Yes décor, the décor was the beauty of the city. Just like how fashion shows are expressions of art, the sex on top of the dumpster fire was also art. Bobby walked down the street. Well, Bobby was wobbling down the street, as best as he damn could anyway- the voices were pushing him to and fro. Stepping on cat’s tails and dog piss; those were the least of his worries.
A screeching voice was demanding all the attention. He was sobbing and sobbing like a little bitch-girl he was. His weak knees have long collapsed on themselves, leaving him in the pitch black voice that was his mind. Bobby looked around, trying to find a dam way out of here. But there was a pretentious prick slapping her black and blue and popping her ear drums with an inhumane pitch, just screaming at her to be anything more than a worthless PIECE OF SHIT WITH NO FUTURE!!!
Because… because there was no future. Bobby started breathing heavily as he soon found the way out. Bobby was wondering off the edge of the cliff every day for the past several years, but the ground always grabbed and chained his ankles. The same world that demanded him to kill himself was also preventing him. Bobby started to giggle, as he tripped on his own feet. Slamming his head against a parked car and into a puddle of dog piss before finally hitting something real. He was so close to finding the cliff but god FUCKING DAMIT!! He was THIS CLOSE! THIS CLOSE!
….
Bobby turned his head skyward. It was a nice day. Clear sky, nice weather. Birds flew and sung. There was a nice stinging smell and harmonious sounds floating around him. “What was the saying again?” Bobby said, as he got himself up. “When life pisses, make piss vodka?” He put his arms on his hips, taking some space on the crowed sidewalks. “No, there was definitely lemons. So should I make lemon vodka?” Everyone ignored him, just like he ignored everyone else. It’s a dog eat dog world, both literally and metaphorically. “Or was it sit back and drink vodka?” He bumped into people as he tried walking into an alley. All pipes lead to home, as they say. Well.. for gutter rats, at least. Wait, wasn’t it alleys and alley rats? Bobby had no time to ponder on the question as the bitch-girl in his head started sobbing again, but this time the prick lost himself somewhere in this abyss and a kind gentle old man walked out. God fucking dam it, bobby sighed. His sermons always give me a headache, and Bobby tried to prepare himself by banging his head against the brick wall in the alley, right next to… to nothing, actually. How odd. Maybe this time he can grab the old man inside his head. the old man started yapping, and yapping… and yapping. Did I also mention he was yapping? “One should submit to God, like a wife kneels before her husband,” Bobby repeated after the old man. He slammed the brick wall again, just hoping this headache will pop out. “Submit to God. He is our will. He is our light. God, the Graceful, only demands the best wine and bread.” Bobby gave up, and walked further down, clawing his fingers into his head. Maybe, just maybe, this time, he can rip the old man to shreds. But it was too late. “Therefore, sacrifice your blood and flesh onto the Lord and He will shower you with His Will and Grace.” Bobby yanked out his hair, its root still grabbing onto his flesh, still hoping, praying, for life. “Blood for the Lord.” Bobby stumbled again, but he caught himself this time. He knew he was insane, insane as insane can go. “I need to get help. I want help. Help HELP HELP!!!” Bobby screeched. But no one responded. The world left him to struggle by himself, to himself. And for what? For it to enjoy its sick games? Before he knew it, after soothing the crybaby, the preacher had already walked back into the abyss. And Bobby saw the blood pentagram he drew with his flesh and blood. He started at it for a while, “well it is art” he said, patting his new bald spot.
