"save yourself"

it was 11:30pm and I was leaning against a wall in an alley off another alley on the middle of the inner city. The only light came from the few streets lamps leaking into the claustrophobic stretch of space. Writing on the concrete walls talked to me in gibberish fragments and inside jokes. I could put my elbows out on both sides and touch the walls between the two buildings.

My heart was beating faster then usual. A sunday night and the city was quiet. Hookers lurked aroundn a few corners, out on the main streets. Pushers and muggers waited in alleys along the path here. But not on this alley. No, this was mine. Far seculded from the other back streets. A little piece of land to catch my breath. An ambulance cried out then trailed off... somewhere.
The feeling of being surrounded by the city gave me a rush. It always has. I was born and raised under these buildings and traffic lights, and I've always felt more alive out here. In these places, in these situations. Something of a tranquility found in a den of sin, and greed and rust.

On me, my backpack with a gun inside. A camera strapped across my chest, two rolls of film and some lenses in the backpack.

I was on the hunt.

I lit a cigarette and stared at these words tagged on the wall;

"They gave me a grave, but I'm not yet dead but still a slave"

Pulling on the smoke between my lips, looking up to the top of the building the writing was on, I pulled out a small pocket knife I keep clipped out of sight on the bottom of ny backpack. My thumb pushed the blade open and I put the cigarette back between my lips, holdinng it there. My left hand lifted my shirt and I inhaled more smoke on the hot sunday night. Sweat on my brow tickled and itched by my eyes.
The blade was firmly pressed against my stomach and I exhaled with a dull moan as the initial sting of the blade broke the skin. I drew it across my body for about 8 inches and watched every moment of the cut. It was like the other times. At first there was nothing. Just a soft growing burn as the air rushed over the wound. Then a few small dots of red, soon, a trail of blood came seeping out of the cut. And for some minutes, the pain made me forget. The sounds of the city provided a soundtrack to this scene. Cars and sirens. The hiss of steam vents, the buzz of back alley flood lights. For a few minutes, I forgot about her. This was my punishment for each time my mind wandered back to her... to them. For each time my heart still tried to care. 25 lines on my body to this point, and bound to be more.

The blood turned thick and highlighted the new wound. I stared at it and was reminded of why I sentenced myself to this punishment. So I cut again. 26 lines on my body. The pain sank in and I inhaled more smoke. My head went light and I grinned. It felt good, it felt damn good. No drugs or booze I've ever tried felt as good as this. So natural. Fuck the artificial. My environment that I photographed was filled with artificiality. Not this pain. It was real, kept me awake, made my heart beat. Took the focus of my sinking stomach and tired eyes. Helped me forget that my life, otherwise, was useless and losing meaning. Reaffirmed that I was, in fact, still alive. If not for that, well, the void of purpose and caring might confuse the senses that I had no pulse.

A beeping tapped its way into the city night and I flipped open my cell phone to read a text message from a girl I had recently met that made me smile. A not so common event lately. A comfortable distraction that took away some of the pressure.

I dropped my shirt and looked at the writing on the wall again. Lifted the camera and took a picture of it.

http://www.artconspiracy.com/files/defect/wallwriting.JPG

I pushed myself off the wall. There was more writing on the wall behind me, some I hadn't noticed when I first walked into the alley,

"Save yourself"