Dead Black Boy


It’s difficult to know what to do in these kinds of situations.

Stainless is the steel tip of the berretta pistol I’m holding to the back of his head. Stained conscience stops me from pulling the trigger, but I find myself stuck here.

“Gang activity” is what they’ll label his murder. Another dead black boy lost within the numbers. A meaningless statistic. They won’t even remember his name and all I have to do pull the trigger. But I can’t seem to do it. Can’t seem to kill this nigger.

The most important part of this moment isn’t that it’s another gang related murder of a black boy, but rather, it’s the murder of a black boy by the hands of a skinny bald white boy. Even if someone knew it’d get buried within minutes of it being known. And I don’t want to do this, but the guys are right behind me and they’ll kill me if they knew I’d let this black boy live. This is purely circumstantial. Unfortunate, but I choose to live which inevitably means I choose to take that from him. Life is life, don’t judge me because I happen to be choosing mine if I see a get out of jail free card I’ll cash it in, it’s time.

Eyes tightly closed. I hear the wind blow the leaves as my finger tightly squeezes. But it never goes all the way. I stay there and play with the trigger and replay what got me here.

Three days ago six black boys from the same gang broke into Dan’s house and raped his senior mother because they heard his father was a racist. A harmless washed up old man, left over from the Nazi war and Dan’s mom had nothing to do with any of that. And he’s a standup dude, this shouldn’t have happened to his mother. But these niggers, they showed us their true colors.

So we shaved our heads and got tatted. Fuck the nigger savage. As punishment we’ve hunter their families, one by one, but this kid at the other end of the gun is too young. And I’m exhausted, done, beginning to question whether or not I should try to run.