Looking into the mirror, I saw that the band-aid on my forehead had fallen off during the night, exposing the long, ugly cut above my left eyebrow. Charlie, you idiot, I thought to myself, why didn’t you see that little punk coming at you? That’ll leave a nasty scar. I had told my family that I slipped and hit my head on a restroom sink at work. My little sister, Anne, had a hard time believing that one, but she kept her mouth shut. Thankfully, Mom seemed to buy the story. I put on a fresh band-aid, managing not to wince at the pain. I then quickly brushed my teeth and walked downstairs to the kitchen.

    The kitchen was deserted; Mom was already at work, and Anne was off to school. It was silent, except for the sound of my feet against the cracking linoleum as I crossed the room. Ignoring the bitter draft coming in from the cracks in the walls, I quickly fixed myself my usual breakfast: stale toast and weak coffee.

    I sat down at the breakfast table, which was, like the rest of the house, falling apart. I ate the burnt toast quietly, without relish. The sound of police sirens echoed in the distance outside the house, causing the hairs on my neck to instinctively rise. I forced myself to relax and finished my toast.

    After breakfast, I walked upstairs and got dressed in my usual outdoor apparel: black shirt, dark jeans, and my grimy black trenchcoat. Once I finished, I fetched an old toolbox from under my bed. Withdrawing a key from a pocket in my coat, I unlocked the rusty box, revealing the contents inside. I removed the pistol first, its chrome finish creating a distorted reflection of myself, and tucked it into my belt near the small of my back. Next came the knife, long and curved and evil-looking, which I slid into one of my coat’s many inner pockets. Finally came the red bandanna, still stained with blood from yesterday’s cut. I hesitated a bit, holding the bandanna tightly in my hand.

    As I sat there, my eyes drifted to the bookshelf along the wall of my room. I slowly walked towards it, and looked longingly at my books as they slowly collected dust. Those books brought back a flood of memories, memories of another time, another life. I remembered the life I had before dad died; before we had to move to this run-down dump to save money; before I started hanging out with the guys. All I wanted was to get away from this hellhole, to start over again. I had decided long ago that one of these days, I’d run from this life, make a fresh start... one of these days...

    Suddenly, I realized that I was still holding the bandanna. The guys were waiting for me, and I didn’t want to piss them off. I sighed and put on the bandanna, clearing my mind of my foolish memories. I then rushed downstairs and out of the house, into the decaying, lifeless streets outside.

    I walked down the rubble-strewn street to the corner liquor store, and I quickly spotted Tony’s car. I walked to the old, beat-up, blue Chevy and hopped into the passenger seat. The seat cushions, worn and ripped, strained under my weight. “‘Sup, Tony,” I said casually. I then noticed the 12-gauge shotgun cradled in his lap. “What the hell’s that for?”

    Tony chuckled. “I’m just happy to see you,” he said jokingly. He looked over his shoulder, keeping an eye out for any unwelcome visitors. “It’s a little present, just in case those young punks from yesterday decide to come around again.”

    “Yeah, I hope we run into them,” I replied, remembering the knife cut on my forehead.

    Tony chuckled again, “Don’t worry, you’ll get your payback. Who knows? Maybe you’ll finally get to shoot that gun at something besides a tin can.”

    “Yeah, maybe,” I said. “Where are Bobo and Stan?” I asked.

    “They went to the liquor store to get some booze,” replied Tony as he looked at his watch, “What’s takin’ them so long? Probably checkin’ out Playboys or something. Go down and get them, yeah?”

    I nodded and got out of the car. As I walked towards the liquor store, a shot rang out, and I felt a bullet whiz by my head, narrowly missing me and striking a nearby stopsign. I instinctively ducked for cover behind the car. More shots came from across the street. I didn’t dare take the risk of looking to see who was firing. Tony had already jumped out of the car, and was firing his shotgun in the direction of our attackers. I could barely hear his cussing over the deafening sound of gunfire.

    A bullet hit the car window right above me, shattering it. I covered my head as bits of glass rained down on me. Stan and Bobo came rushing out of the liquor store, guns blazing. The entire street was in chaos as pedestrians ran for cover amid the hail of gunfire. Tony crouched down next to me behind the car.

    “I count five of them,” he said, breathing hard. “They’re the guys from yesterday, definitely. I’ve only got three shells left in the twelve-gauge. You’d best get off your ass and do something, or we’re all wasted. You remember how to shoot don’t you?”

    I nodded and drew out my pistol. I tried to stay calm, but my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking. Calm down, Charlie, calm down! I turned and rose up from behind the car, aiming the pistol in front of me. I saw a figure across the street, gun in hand, firing wildly in our direction. I took careful aim, slowed my breathing, squeezed the trigger, just like I had been taught. The gun jerked back as the shot rang out, and I quickly aimed again and fired once more for good measure. Even before I fired the second shot, however, I saw the figure reel backwards as my first bullet hit home, right in the chest. The second shot hit his shoulder, before he even hit the ground. To me, the man seemed to fall in slow-motion, that one instant in time took an eternity in my mind.

    “Yeah! Look at them run!” yelled Tony as the other members of the attacking gang fled. “Haha! Nice one, Charlie-boy, nice one.”

    But I didn’t hear him. I stood there for a while, staring at the body lying in the street. Slowly, I walked towards the corpse, the gun in my hand dropping to my side. As I drew closer, I recognized the person I had just shot. It was that little punk from the day before, the kid that had cut me in that fight. But now I forgot the cut, forgot the anger, forgot that this kid was my enemy. He was just a boy. Just a poor, misguided child. He was just a kid, no older than Anne. And now here he lay, on a cold, empty street in a pool of blood...

    I staggered backwards a little, unable to take my eyes away from the dead body. Then I lost it, and I vomited, painting the street with stale toast and coffee. I noted with detached interest the sound of police sirens headed in my direction. I heard Tony yelling at me to follow him as he ran away from the scene, but I ignored him. Nothing seemed to matter now. Thoughts of running away and starting a new life suddenly disappeared from my mind. Nothing mattered, except for this life I had just taken.

    The police were now upon me. No, Charlie, no more running. I heard them scream at me to drop my weapon and put my hands in the air. No more running. I stood there, in the cold and empty street, eyes closed, as the they read me my rights, cuffed me, and took me to the squad car. No more..

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