Do you touch walls on which "WET PAINT" signs are strung up?

I do, as often as possible, not to get the feeling of paint pressed deeply onto my palms but to see if it’s the truth, you know to conform that it is wet.

I met a kid, or a guy who looked like a kid, the other day, he walked into the tattoo parlour I work in. He looked like he hadn’t slept in months, and the dark circles that underlined his eyes proved this point.

Looking at him I got a bit worried, he didn’t look homeless but he didn’t look healthy. “Kid you ok?” I asked, he never answered but handed me about sixty six dollars in cash and held out his arm and said:

“I want a tattoo, this arm on this wrist …” his arms were slightly dirty, as if he had been sleeping in dirt, I buried my brow in frustration.

“Kid how old are you?”

It’s mandatory to ask their age, anyone younger than 18 cannot have a tattoo, I mean I don’t want no more federal cops running along my ass.

The guy held out his ID and I got a good look at it, the birth year clearly pointed out a not-so-obvious fact, he was 19.

I scratched my head and looked at him; he looked 15 possibly 16.

“Yeah sure come this way…” I muttered and walked into my room. I tend not to argue too much, plus it had been a rough day for me:

I woke up late for work…that night was really tough the cops barged into my room and they accused me of having and selling drugs. It didn’t take me long to set them straight, that lasted half the night and but the time I was finally headed to bed the beautiful sun was painting the sky a pink and blue. I rushed which meant no breakfast or coffee and on top of it all I learned that everyone in my building was going to be evicted because apparently it didn’t meet the health standards. Now the only choice I really have is to go to New Jersey to stay with my mother.

Anyways back to the story about the guy. He asked for something simple, but strange, it was a circle with an x through it, it kind of looked like a railroad crossing sign but not quite.

“What’s with the Tat sir?” He grinned and looked at me, It made the aura of the room very…uneasy.

“Have you heard of him?”

“Him?” I asked focusing deeply on my work; the music is usually deadly, ear drum bursting loud but oddly enough today it was almost muted, which makes me wonder if Kendra is taking a nap again.

“Him, the one I’m running from…” I moved the blond hair from my face and looked up.

“Who’s him?”

The man didn’t say anything after that, I asked about twice more the same question ‘who’s him?’ but without a response, it was annoying as hell and within half an hour he was ready to leave.

“Hey are these walls really wet?” he asked.

I flipped the book I was reading and laughed holding my lime green hand up I smiled brightly. “Nawh not at all” The man looked at me oddly.

“If you touch the walls that have ‘wet paint’ on them you must not be very trusting” I looked at him, my smile faded as he left. Could it be true, do I not have enough trust?

Kendra told me to leave early to get my stuff, so I did but the only problem is…I don’t have a lot. I packed my clothes and toothbrush and, somehow, managed to sell my piece of shit TV for $200.

So I guess it’s my turn to give my mother a call, which almost makes me sick to the stomach the fact I have to call her. At the same time I guess it is true it’s a two way street, so I’ll go dial her up and hopefully find a good job in New Jersey, you’re probably wondering: ‘why not find a new place in New york?’

I don’t know, this city and the people in it are really pissing me off.

Don't be surprised if you dont hear from me for awhile....

You have been the type of child who charms the lollipops off people.

After work I came home and stole the internet off the lady down the street, it was the only connection seeing as my building was full of people who couldn’t afford it…

Like myself.

I guess it’s strange being in a house full of whores. I seriously mean whores the kind that wander around at night with their slutty red miniskirts and too tightly tied corsets and ankle breaking high heels.

Whores they bring their men home and you can hear them from a mile away I am not kidding, these are the ones with the pimps I feel bad for the dumb bitches.

Next on my list of people I love in my apartment buildings is the crack heads:

Druggies, the guys and girls on meth, cocaine, weed, LSD etc. I’m sure there were people I the building complex that mixed up different drugs to create new ones I heard a rumour one guy created a drug which he called FDP. I only really met one, he broke into my apartment to steal some cash, he was god awful looking and smelling. He had scabs over his face and body his clothes smelled like urine and sweat and he didn’t brush his teeth ever, his skin had turned a yellowish colour and was dry.

As he grabbed hold of my arm I could feel skin flake off and whatever was left of his hair fall onto me, the smell of his breath was vomit inducing and he kept talking in as if I knew what he wanted.

“Got any Con, hey got any? C’mon baby I kow you have it, ill give you something for it..money, sex, anything you want con”

I felt his dry flaky hands reach into my ass pocket and I slapped him across the face, Jesus Christ I slapped him hard because he flew to the ground and whimpered. Without proper food, water or care he was shrived into something that could never be called human. I tried to call the cops, but the phones were always dead around here and I always fucking forget that.

Even as I picked up the white plastic he ran towards me again, it was useful in a sense; I tossed it at the druggy’s face and heard him tumble to the ground crying in pain I felt proud.

So I’ve only felt proud once.

I felt sorry for the poor bastard and wanted to put an end to his life, hell how could you not feel sorry for someone who is curled on your floor covering his scarred and scabbed face crying in pain?

I couldn’t.

I wanted to.

How badly I wanted to.

I just shoved him out and told him to fuck off. That had to be one of the most eventful days of my life.

Who else lives it this shit hole? Drunkards, they usually don’t ‘cause too much trouble one tried to knife the older lady upstairs I could hear her screaming so I ran up, saw Matthew my own next door drunk dirt bag holding a hunting knife over his head. Mrs. Johnson, the older lady, has a lot more in her apartment then I do; china plates, bar stools, toaster ovens, toast. I grabbed the closet object at hand, which sadly happened to be a beautiful hand painted plate and busted it over Matthews head, the white and blue shards of glass went everywhere and Mrs. Johnson was shaking in fear. That skinny runt fell to the floor faster than I had seen in my life, I stepped over his body and helped Mrs. Johnson up. She was small and now crying in fear I know she didn’t want to live here but she couldn’t afford much else and her children wouldn’t pay to give her a nice home. She thanked me kindly and I helped pat her cooking apron clean.

“Sorry about your plate”

“It’s ok, I’m glad the angels are watching over me, I’m so glad god sent you in time”

She patted my face, I could forgive her for calling me an angel her little mind was not working properly anyways the way I seen it back then she was going to die soon anyways.

She did too, three days after I helped her she died in her sleep, I was the one who found her, I had bought her a plate like the one I had broken when I walked in she didn’t answer so I walked into her bedroom and there she was fast asleep with a smile.

I still have that plate somewhere, now that I’m writing this I think I’ll go look for it later.

She left a will, as I said before she did have a lot more than I did, but that’s not saying a lot because I hardly have anything.

In her will she wanted to leave the angel a message: ‘don’t forget me’.

I still have that will too, god damn for someone who don’t have a lot I sure keep some stuff it’s been years now like I told you I’m 24 all this happened when I was  19.

Fuck.

The only other person in this complex is a young woman she’s 22 and has two children, Emily who is 2 and Jacob who is 4.

I babysit all the time for her, I never ask for money or anything just I ‘unno I guess I feel bad for her, she works two jobs and her husband left her when she found out she was pregnant.

I take them out a lot for supper, not just the kids I take Rebecca out too.

I always tell her children that: “You have been the type of child who charms the lollipops off people”

Then I buy them each one lollipop. Thank god rent is cheap, seriously its 250 a month hell half the time I don’t pay seeing as the owner never comes around to check anything.

Thinking about it maybe I should live with my mother, she lives in New Jersey after her and my father divorced she got together with another guy.

Maybe I have mommy issues.

I never write/email/call hell I never try to contact her. Maybe I should?

No she never even really gave me much attention as a child; then again communication works both ways. I’m not going to waste my goddamn day thinking and arguing to myself if I should call my betraying bitch of a mother.

Plus I’m exhausted, thinking about how I actually help people and give a damn makes me depressed, no one really cares about me so I don’t see why I give a shit about them.

Wow it sounds as if I want to die….Hardly even that I want to live, and for fuck sakes I’m going to.

What is 'dead'?

Throughout my time spent in jail apparently my father put himself in rehab. I’ll admit my father is not a bad guy; he's just done some bad things then again.
Haven’t we all?

So I decided to visit him, screw visiting hours I demanded they let me see MY father and so they did.

He was dressed in a clean outfit.

"Papa." he turned looking at me, his blue eyes smiled at me as he walked towards me.

"Con, My angel." he always said that, and it killed me. 'My angel.’ I'm far from an angel; in fact I’m the furthest from an angel, and even further then Satan himself. My father’s name is Damien Smith, he really is a nice guy besides the (or what use to be the) drug withdrawal, drug rages he went through. "Where have you been?" I turned to play with my fingers, hell I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

I mean how bad would it be to say, 'Hey dad went to jail, sorry I couldn’t visit because me being in jail and all...' Yeah, not taking that road. "Works been busy, looking for a new place to live. Hell I didn’t even know you were in here, old man."

He looked down; maybe that wasn’t the best road. Did I make it seem as if I was ignoring him? "I was in jail..." I muttered

"I know."

"Of course you did." I said sounding slightly frustrated.

I really hate it when people ask where you were and they already know the answer, maybe they want to see if you are really trustworthy.

The room was quiet, deathly silence filled each and every hall; it was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat...

Ok that was a stretch, maybe so quiet I could hear my father breathing."How long are you in here for, old man?"

"Until I'm clean... or I die."

"Die?" I asked sounding confused, I know death, and I know it well. But even so I always asked myself what is "death"? Medical science shit says it’s when a human no longer breathes or their heart stops.
But even after a person is considered dead, could they still be living? Think about it maybe they are being reborn possibly, maybe something like angels can come and take them to a heaven maybe some sort of personal paradise.

Maybe they wander around like ghost, not really searching for anything; just wanting to make sure there family is safe.

"Death comes for us all; most of us know when our time is up. We ignore it, sometimes you can feel when another is about to pass..." He grabbed my hand lightly and I could feel it, this aura of darkness and it scared me so I pulled back.

"Fuck dad, don’t scare me like that! You’re not going to die, you’re getting help now and get over your silly goddamn ideas that you going to die. Because you’re not, I won’t let you die, I need you..."

He looked at me with a smile and reached into his dresser, he took out a brown leather book and shoved it into my arms. "May God be with you, my angel. My Con, stay safe."

Two male staff came in telling me I had to leave, I really didn’t have a choice so I said my goodbyes and left. Down the hall I could hear a female patient screaming and several staff running. "Agony! Agony! Daughter of Satan, have mercy!"

Agony? Daughter of the Devil? I could only imagine the types of drugs she was on: LSD, Heroin, Cocaine, Meth.

Outside the air was cool, not cold and brisk but cool. My dad tapped on the window and waved me off.
The streets of New York are always packed full of people, all different kinds too. Short, tall, thin, fat, rich, poor, kids, elderly all kinds. It annoys me, I never truly believed I fit into this world, it was a weird thing.

There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved...

The statement is false. Love is pointless, the people who love and the people who are in love are pointless to. The only happiness is knowledge, to know and in turn share what you know with the world.
But if you know that in the end love hurts why dive headfirst into it? That’s why the people who in love are pointless and stupid.
Just like Cops.

I was in jail for six months for flipping a cop the bird. The Judge charged it as assault of a cop (I swear the cop’s just took me to the worst Judge just to shove me in jail, stupid bastards I spit in their direction)

Of course he started it, put a dent in my bike, a nice one on the tail end to, he should be glad I didn’t key his car or do real damage. Pff, Jail for flipping a cop off. Not like I didn’t run like hell that guy chased me three blocks before I tripped and fell, what happened to the stereotypes of cops being lazy fat asses who drank coffee and ate doughnuts? If only.

The room was a mess, every morning I’d leave a small dead animal outside my cell for the officer to find. I stopped after day five, not because I ran out of animals but because the officer looked at me and said. “If you don’t give it up, this will be your breakfast every morning”. My phone calls were always monitored; I hardly made them to anyone though my fathers a drug addict since my mother divorced him and married another man and my friends were already plotting to break me out anyways so. And the meals well, I won’t be coming here for take-out anytime soon.

That reminds me, I haven’t even told you my name. Hello, call me Con. I’m 24 and live in New York, New York. I was born in a small town somewhere in Canada, for some reason I cant remember the name its almost like theres only one part of my childhood I can remember, but I was brought to and raised in the ‘big apple’.

I love supernatural beings, and I won’t mind sharing what I know with you all. I work in a tattoo parlour, which is strange because I hate needles. I don’t regret and no I don’t make mistakes, I don’t care what you say I don’t. I think we will get along well as long as you don’t screw around with my head and beliefs.

Now there is reason why I love these ‘being’s’. I guess I never had much as a kid, the only toy I really ever owned was a Tricycle I named Tric. Besides the toys I stole it was the only thing my father ever bought for me, cheap scape is he.

I remember being a kid, riding my Tric in the park with my father. One kid decided to stop me in my path, he thought he was so cool with his gang of friends, he must have been ten. "What's UP Con how's the view from DOWN there?" he leaned down and flicked my forehead. "Oh screw off Timmy!” I remember when screw off was the worst word I knew. So innocent.

Funny enough he did just that and left me alone, a few days later he came to my house and dared me to go into the woods alone as to this day I still don’t know why. I refused and he called me a chicken, I didn't care, then he told me if I didn't go he would steal my Tric, my most valuable item, so I did go. And I regret it since then, because they were in the woods too, trying to scare me by jumping out, and they did scare me and I screamed at them and I cried. That’s all I can remember.

I woke up in my bedroom that morning, the sun was bright and I went through my day like normal, Timmy was there, but he didn’t seem like the Timmy I remember though, shaky, jittery. He just grabbed my hand and kept saying ‘I’m sorry’ over and over we moved three days later. Since then I was determined to find out what happened, I know that whatever had happened it happened in those woods.