It was there, over there on that wooden bench. The wooden bench that has lost the war with time, surrendered to the inevitable changing of appearance. And I was here. My former innocence stood upon this very pavement, though I stood dignified- I knew my virtue would soon be corrupted. My innocence taken by its’ pearly neck, twisted as if it were nothing but a porcelain doll, and damaged to the extent that it disappeared into dust. I needed the much desired evil that is money. For I didn’t want the green bills that have seemed to have drugged mankind, I more so needed them to the extent that without them my father would have died. Though my life precious, not as precious as my beloved father’s who had been recently diagnosed with melanoma. My father is what some claim to be poor, though I have always perceived him as being the wealthiest man in the world. For my father is an angel of sorts, holding more kindness and generosity in his soul than any other being on this plant we claim is earth. And though unfortunate, life lacks fairness. And my father did not deserve to be diagnosed, should not have been put through the agony of failure, faced with debt after spending every dime he possessed on his treatments. Therefore, I was forced to abandon my former goodness and join the “WAD” gang. The “WAD” stands for, We Are Death, and I promise you, they are what they claim to be. Death. Of course my suffering father never was informed I was becoming “a death eater”, instead he awaited death as I reassured him I would acquire the money necessary to continue his treatments and relive him from his despair. I was called, “Tough Tina”, rumored to have the ability to lift a car. Though I appeared frightful, seemed tragically evil, it was all an act. For if I killed this one man, this one man that is claimed to have half of the gang’s earnings, I am given enough money in order to pay for my father’s treatment. And though I was perceived as being a criminal, the tales of my numerous murders were all false. I was a skilled deceiver, creative yet possible. And the bench I described earlier, that is where the Caucasian man sat. Where he slyly bit his half-eaten nails, awkwardly shook his left knee, covered in goose-bumps as if he were the last man on earth. And I. Crouched down towards the stained pavement, my tattoo on my upper arm wrinkled as I searched for my pistol, as my breathing grew rarer and rarer. I knew this was a sin I was obliged to commit, and if I believed in god I would have prayed for redemption. My crooked thumb grasped the pistol as my other finger pulled the shining trigger. Though I lived in a busy city, this street was surprisingly desolate. If I believed in fate I would have claimed this was “meant to be.” But I don’t believe in fate and I don’t believe in magical lands far off and I refuse to be ignorant to the fact that we make our own history because the bullet never landed on the milky-white man gnawing on his hands. Instead it landed inside of a store, killing both a baby named Sarah and her mother Karen. For it didn’t really kill Karen, it killed the thing she adored with all of her heart, therefore she died inside- a little more each day. And for me, my father died of cancer and I disappeared into the alley ways. And heroin became my father, and my dream of becoming an accomplished musician withered away into the bleak, meaningless sky.