Ghetto's Child

The Firstborn

     "It is better to fail in originality than to succeed in imitation."

A ghetto is one of those places. It reminds us of what we’ve lost yet what we’ve gained at the same time. The noisy streets littered with trash, the air polluted to no end, and yet food vendors don’t go out of business.Why is that? Do people just not care? I couldn’t say. It’s just “ one of those things”.

I thought about these things as i ran through the ghetto where i lived. Yes . I lived in that hellhole. It was like a black hole, it sucked you in and before you knew it… well i guess you’ll find out later. For now just know this. Never trust anyone in a ghetto. My name is Transch. Don’t ask me where i’m from or where my family is. Those things don’t matter here. But what does, is that every person around you is an opportunity. Some see them as a way out of the ghetto, others see them as victims of whatever it is they do. Me? I don’t see them as either of those. I just do what feels natural when i meet them.

Each ghetto has a personality. Mine? I would say that it’s… an experience. I know vague right? Right now you’re probably thinking “ is there a point to all this ?” Well the answer is… yes . there is a point. My point is that a ghetto requires you to, well not be you. Well it’s about time i get breakfast. I fish out my wallet i stole this off a turkish businessman last year. By the way, there’s something you should know about me before we move any further. I don’t steal money. Yes, i know ironic isn’t it? “A thief with a conscience.” I’d like to refute that statement before you jump to conclusions.  Thieves with a conscience don’t last long in the ghetto. Especially mine.

Money is like a magnet, and for us who live in the ghetto, getting  noticed is what gets you killed. To the outside world it may be power, but here it’s just something you get rid of as soon as possible.

Don’t believe me? I’ll tell you a story that’ll change your mind. I had a friend, once. He was older than me so when we were young he took care of me. Taught me the        “ trade” as it were. We stole everything. From wallets to dresses to even books. Yes i know, even people in the ghettos read you elitists. He was good, my friend. I didn’t know his name, even though we’d been living, stealing and learning together for almost a year now. In the ghetto you make every effort to not get close to people because in the ghetto, the life expectancy rate wasn’t exactly showing us living till we were rich and ripe. He called me “ Little T” and i called him “ Treacle” . Neither of us knew each other’s real name. So i asked. He looked at me for about a whole minute that felt like an eternity.

Almost like it was rehearsed, his fist came up on my jaw like a sledgehammer. I reeled back with the shock of the blow, he then straddled me and continued his unending barrage of punches. That day i saw a side of him i had never seen before. He for the first time in all our “ acquaintance” as you would call it, he cried. As his barrage of punches came to a halt, my face bruised as it was could still feel his tears falling on my face. It was salty and i hated the taste, but he eventually let me up and he spoke softly to me. “ i’m sorry..” he said his voice barely audible over the bustling and cranky ghetto outside the alley. Then almost immediately a voice from the entrance of the alley shouted; “ TREACLE!!!!” as he ran towards us in a fit of rage. The colour drained from Treacle’s face as he kicked me into a manhole with my bag in tow and he then covered to hole back up as the footsteps approached

I heard a gun cock. “ Where’s my money?!” said the voice. “ You know… i couldn’t say.” replied Treacle “ RRrraahhhh!!! Shouted the voice as a single gunshot was heard and what followed was a faint thud. I covered my mouth to stop from screaming. I was terrified. Tears flowed down my cheeks in a steady stream. I then ran. Ran till my legs were jelly. I then sat on a nearby crate in an abandoned warehouse and unzipped my bag. As i finished unzipping my bag i noticed it was heavier than usual. I parted the bag open and saw all the money. Then money that got Treacle killed. There was a note above the stack. It read; “ There ain’t no room for heart little T - Colin”

So there. Money equals death in this world. What did i do with the money? Well… that’s obvious. He glances over to a burning barrel, an he smirks. I did what anyone would do. In the ghetto that is.