Listen To My Screams

So you think you know me, do you? You think you know why I torment you, and why I always do it alone. I don’t want your dinner money, or your wallet, or your bus pass. I don’t want to make your life miserable, or sad, or a living hell. But I don’t care if I do.1

Let me tell you a story.2


I was a good child, until I was six. Dad and I were on the tube, going to the hospital to see Mum and my new baby brother. They came out of nowhere. I remember the station: Shepherd’s Bush is where they got on. They had knives, and they were aiming for Dad. I was stuck in the crowd and I couldn’t protect him, people were pushing me out of the way, tall people, and they parted at the exact moment Dad got stabbed.3

I saw the blade sink, then get pulled out, then sink again. Four times. That used to be my lucky number.4

He collapsed onto an old woman who tried to hit him with her handbag before she saw the blood. The train stopped at White City next. People were pulling Dad onto the platform and others were calling the police, an ambulance. No one would let me near him. Who was I? A little kid. Protect the child.5

Then the paramedics came, and the police. They pushed the crowd away and I ran to Dad. Do you know how hard it is to hug someone when they’re lying down? I was pulled off, and someone asked me if he was my dad. I couldn’t stop staring at him, lying on the platform alone except for two men wearing green suits. I wanted to be with him.6

And that’s when I started screaming.7


I kick you and you fall to the floor. The money spills out of your hand and I search your pockets for a wallet. I like to strip people of their identity. It makes me feel that little bit more human, carrying someone’s life in my hand.8

You are weak and I laugh. I can see you now, for what you truly are. Beneath everything, you are a coward. Do you think that of me? Have you delved that deep?9

I may be dead on the surface, but inside the screams haven’t stopped.