Young Writers Society

City of Saints

Paranoia, psychosis and urges only satisfied through the devils medicine prevent these lost souls venturing too far from constant poverty. Inhabitants concentrate on survival, too weak to complain, too destitute to look for answers, too obsessed with survival that they do not question authority. Oppressed by society’s sharks, trapped within nets of poverty and consumption. Pain is evident throughout the city, shown in the dejected state of the streets, walls and roads; pains and grievances communicated not through appeals and petitions, through the earthly forms of spray paint and violence.

Well intentioned souls are washed away by a ferocious torrent slowly drowning in dark murky waters that have, for so long now, taken any attempt to reform as fuel for the inward desecration slowly devouring this abhorrent place. Below the high rooftops of the masses of apartment buildings, long and dusky shadows hid the prowlers creeping along streets; grey walls tinted an eerie silver glow in the moonlight, like a ghost town.

Sun sinking slowly over the city creates a divine halo, sunlight reflecting off the glittering water onto white washed high rise apartment walls that form the typically European skyline. Suspended in time, the sunset; generating an unwelcome reminder of this once prodigious city’s prospects. Superficial beauty, only momentarily masking the ugly pockmarks prominent in the daily lives of the inhabitants of this potentially heavenly city. Picturesque images fade all too quickly and city soon becomes its depthless self again, slowly decaying in filth, crime and drugs.

Life and light of a vague description could be found in the town centre, the steps of cattedrale dei san were littered with throngs of people all speaking mutedly as if afraid of being over heard. A few tourists dined late in the cafés, eating as quickly knowing full well they were not welcome here, over this side of the river was vecchia città, no place for the faint of heart or the non-native.

Movement in the shadows of the alleyway, down the side of the gothic cathedral. A small boy faintly visible through the obscure darkness moved through the alley with precision and familiarity, lightly stepping through the desolate crevice. The child emerged from the inky blackness clouding the alley, with careful, purposeful movements. He slinked, catlike down the bleak street drawn by the sounds of voices echoing along the abandoned road.

As the boy drew closer he paused, attempting to postpone the inevitable. Flickering streetlights exaggerated his adolescent figure. His eyes were wide with anticipation and fear. An older silhouette stepped slowly out; sinking into the shadows compressing him self against the wall the boy tensed ready to pounce. Pausing in the flickering, flaxen glow of the street light the mysterious figure lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The boy saw his opportunity and pounced, he leapt at the silhouette catching him off balance, hitting him in the stomach, the ribs, the nose swinging as hard and fast as he could trying to inflict as much pain as possible. The boy halted, suddenly ridged. His gaze fixated downward. He screamed, wailing in pain, holding his side writhing on the ground. Blood spilled out of him, pooling around him like a broken bottle on a kitchen floor. The other figure stood over the boy and looked him in the eye with cold, icy blue eyes. With out a word he pulled out a sinister silver pistol and pulled the trigger, the sound reverberating around the streets like a thunderbolt.