The sun peeks through the cracks in my blinds. Its warmth awakens me. I rise for another day spent in a seemingly unbreakable cycle. This street corner is almost a second home to me. Never have I despised a residence as much as I do this one.
I stand on the corner beside the alleyway. This is where I do business. A customer approaches; with him comes the guilt I am burdened with every day. He is gaunt, so thin the wind could blow him away, his hair resembling a wild dog. I don’t want to sell to him but I must; my family needs food and jobs never call back. I would die before I let my daughter starve.
“You got the stuff?” Despite only saying four words, he told me a lot. His voice is one full of pain, sorrow, and loss. This powder he feels, is his only escape. I take the money and place the bag in his hands.
As I close another deal, I can’t help but wonder what kind of man it makes me. I put food on my family’s table by destroying someone else’s. What kind of father does that make me? I’ve never shot unless I had to but I’m sure my product has taken a life or two.
The ground beneath me is red; I wonder whose blood covers these bullet shells. Those I sell to eventually become nothing but shells. The guilt induced by the consequences of my line of work has turned me into a shell.