I'm sat on a street corner, crying. Cars pass, 50mph down a 30mph stretch of road. It's cold; I left my coat behind in the heat of the argument. Apparently it's dangerous. It's 9pm. Autumn. People pass, they stare, automatically I'm forced on defense, thoughts running through my mind 'he has a knife'. Some blank out my still figure, sat on the roadside beside the church, guessing that some must assume I'm an alcoholic or drug addict, that's the way people think these days.
A gang passes; I attempt a casual stroll down the next busiest street. They've done nothing to harm me or nothing to scare me but I'm intimidated. It's 2010.
Once they have passed I move back to where I came from, glass cracked and broken at my feet, a home of obvious stories. Alone in the dark I begin to think of life before the crime and murder, the life when teenagers could walk the street at night, the life when a knife was a kitchen instrument, but actually, I'm not so sure that ever existed, are today's 'problems' just so much less publicised?
I'm thinking of a time when the neighbour would pass and comfort the one in need kneeling on the floor. I'm seeing a time where the closest family member would likely pass and stare due to the worries of alcohol or drug consumption, nothing as simple as a broken heart, or indeed as complicated.
A child passes, I imagine him to be about 10 or 12. He doesn't pass, he doesn't stare, he stops. He holds no fear of the girl in the dark. He asks me if I'm ok. In a world of violence the innocence of a child. It begins me thinking, maybe childhood teaches us too many lessons, we learn to be cautious, and then we lack in care. Maybe we should be more like that careless child. learn to put a smile on the face of depression, then maybe violence will be cured by the problem violence actually begins.
By Boneata Bell
VOXX MAGAZINE 2011