A Fistful of Anger 2

Anger is the only thing I have. I like it very much. I keep it bottled up inside like a baby. Then it begins to cry and I start bitchin and moanin.

"Can you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Complaining about everything."

I stop. Then, I've got nothing to say. Nothing whatsoever. We step out of the dark apartment and look around.

"Sure is sunny outside."

"Sure is."

I start to enjoy the sun and I want to say something nice for once. I want to say that it is a lovely sunny day, and I imagine saying something like that, that it's a lovely sunny day and almost nothing come out.

"Hey little girl, you lookin mighty fine."

I take out a gun and shoot them all.

"Why the hell did you do that?"

"They would have raped you."

"They would have? How can you kill them for "what they would have done?" "

"They would have raped you and then murdered you."

"Would they?"

"They did it with many girls."

"Really? What are you going to do with the bodies?"

"I'm just going to walk away like nothing happened."

"You're really crazy."

Human life doesn't have much value in the ghetto. Killing is just a form of protection. I really don't like killing, but sometimes it feels right. I know that sounds awful, but what do you expect me to do, reader? I have to impress the girl with something and killing is all I've got.

I know what you're thinking. You think I kill because I am angry. NO anger is what keeps me alive and killing is what I'm good at. You get.

"It is a nice sunny day," she admits.