My trembling fingers try to ignite the still waiting water bottle. The black powder still haunts me, after three years. I clench onto the chess piece wobbly in my clammy hand, but it releases, rolls down the shady street, the only light out in the dark horizon. In the distance I see figures coming, watching me. I find the chess piece meters away, so I pick it up, and run. Sirens flicker close by. I attempt to light the water bottle, but it’s too late, I’ve got to get out before I’m caught. It’s hard; I know I’m hurting the people around me, including myself.

Words can’t describe my two- sided life. It’s pretty lonely, no friends to hang out with during the day, even my roommate thinks that I don’t have a life. During the day I’m always in the dorm room, writing essays for my classes. At night I’m always out sitting in musty bars or walking down dark alleys, reading newspapers, and sipping cold tea left over from the day’s work.

A luminescent light flickers in the dingy expanse; a text from my superior tells me that I’m needed. Out to the streets I go with my head hunched down, arms folded.

When I was little I always wanted to be in authority, like the military or the army. I think I’m doing that today, but not in the way I wanted it to be.
I walk into another bar, three blocks away from the last, and I see a grumbly man with an unshaven face staring at me with fierce eyes.
“You’re late.” he mutters, handing me a slip of crumpled paper with an address on it.

He threatens me with his silver gun, fully loaded in his front pocket. I’ve been so terror-stricken of this man since the day I turned eighteen.

Walking onto the street, the night felt so diverting, it felt so good, as if nobody was watching me.