"Why, God, why?"

Dhien was squatting in the streets, looking up into the infinite open ceiling. It was kind of chilly. He could feel the air brushing against his skin and on his bare parts were goosebumps. His heart had dropped from his chest into what felt like the basement. It didn't make sense. They were just drawing dicks and tags on walls yesterday.

"Why have you forsaken me? Did I not do good? Did I not give enough Churchies to those that fiddle the other sheep-like kids? Why, God?"

The young man was trying to speak plainly. He felt betrayed. And kind of beside himself. He felt like he'd followed the universal rules to the letter. And yet, it had happened again. Another loved one taken from him. Was it my fault, the kid thought. Could I have been a better Raskal?

"I did what I said I'd do. I stopped complaining. I acted better. I stopped looking to others for a way out of my own bullshit. I looked to you. The the rule keeper. And now, you remind me there's no hope for the good. For the righteous. For those that stand up for the downtrodden. Should I become a monster? Is that what this world needs? More goddamn monsters?"

Dhien sighed as the last bit of shit escaped from between his buttocks and plopped into and off of the small pile. It rolled a little. He could see it as he turned to look down at the mess. The stench smacked him in his nostrils. He sighed again. He had to start over with another family and was a shy pooper. So here he was, shitting next to a dumpster just off the common streets. Now, he actually kind of literally was beside himself, as in a way, even his own shit still belonged to him.

And that's kind of it, he thought as he jiggled his butt. If this shit is my shit, then if I just smear it all over the walls and pretend it's someone else's fault for doing it, or say someone else is actually making me do it or causing me to do it, is that then the devil's work? Fuck. Where's Albino when you need him. He'd know the answers to these questions.

As he stood up and rolled up his pants, he felt that pang again that he'd long forgotten since finding his way to that nefarious bunch in Chicago. It wasn't a nice feeling. No warmth. Just an ache. A constant ache. It'll be gone soon, he thought. It always goes.

Maybe it's good, though? He was trying to make some kind of sense of this. He and Albino would always do that. They'd spend hours upon hours just philosophizing and tossing ideas around. And it seemed like, with every little 'uh huh' moment, they'd feel a little more awake and so they'd keep on and on until the break of dawn. Hours would seem like minutes.

Maybe we're all just here to die and it's in the dyin' that we realize what life was really about? Maybe it's the pain that makes us. And if it sometimes breaks us, at least we get to even experience that. Because some don't. Some are gone. And they may just never come back - Depending on what you believe, you know, Buddhism and all that.

Dhien made his way back towards the opening. He straightened his shirt and kicked at a small rock. It bounced a little ways then tapped against a trash can. With hands in his pockets and his head and shoulders slumped forward, the young man rejoined the activity on the streets. It was still kind of chilly, causing the one time street urchin to dig his hands deeper into his pockets. I should be used to this weather, he thought. Maybe I've been too cozy for too long.

He wandered a little, watching those out and about. Some were invested in their own cons, some were the audience to those cons, and others were trying to look like they didn't know about or want any part of those cons. But as he knew, the last types were just pawns and in on it as much as the one's shuffling the cards, whether conscious of it or not. Because if they knew it to be a ruse and just watched others get done in, time and time again, weren't they just as guilty?

A little more people watching and contemplating followed until Dhien found a quieter spot. It was just off the sidewalk in a little indent that traversing further into it would lead to a cafe, which had its glass double doors wide open. There were seats outside, scattered around circular tables that held red umbrellas in place. Dhien noticed that one seemed to have a pinkish colour to it, possibly due to the constant striking rays of the sun. He half-smiled a knowing smile then looked around as he pulled his hands out of his pockets.

The cafe had a handful of patrons. The open area to which he was partially facing looked as if the establishment naturally flowed from inside to out. The walls were glass floor to ceiling and so if you were walking past you could see right in, and likewise right out. The kid chose this spot as when he lived the life as a beggar he would come by on Tuesdays and park himself on the sidewalk near the corner just so he could listen to the open mic nights. Some spoken words were funny. Some were quirky. Yet he came for those readings that sparked in him something that reminded him he was alive, and not just here to earn a living.

With a piece of paper in hand, he unfolded it and opened it up. With a heavy heart and yet the courage of a lion, he roared aloud, hoping wherever those smote few were, they'd hear him. And maybe, just maybe, he'd help flint at a little more life in another.

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful?

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,

Or a trouble is what you make it,

And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,

But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there -- that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,

It's how did you fight -- and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could,

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,

And whether he's slow or spry,

It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,

But only how did you die?

 

How Did You Die? By Edmund Vance Cooke

Rest well, you Raskalz, he thought. Rest well.