Read. My. Lips. - Kofte

Running, feeling the cold winter air blow into my face and through the all-to-thin lining of this cheap jacket. So often I thought that the way I looked in public was the most important thing in life! I would say to myself it was my own version of PR, the whole reputation jib I'd always pretended 'not to care about', but secretly spent most of my time thinking of ways to try and attract some attention. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was eating up pavement, striving for the next corner, my lungs burning and breath panting in ragged gasps. I knew much before that I should exercise, but apathy lives strong in this one. Now, exercise would have paid out ten fold, because if I'm too slow, that's it. Dead.

You know you always hear about it on the news, on the radio, in the newspapers. Knife crime. Growing up in leafy suburbia numbs you, turns you into a soft turd who is full of loud voices and boastful stories of giving someone a hiding when you were sixteen. The truth is that that 'hiding' scared you shitless and made you realise just how fragile a human can be. And made you realise just how fragile you were. You can still feel the disgusting jolt as the lad's jaw broke on your fist, the once leering face twisted into a grotesque mask of pain and fear: and you running, the adrenaline searing through your arteries.

That's the problem with suburbia, it dulls the senses and lets you forget that there really is an undercurrent of unrest throughout society whilst you think of the next party or the next spliff. But it changes all too quickly. A bit stoned and sat on the bus, you recollect the evening. Lovely, a few drinks with the boys, even a chat with a girl at the bar. Her number safely in your phone, you roll a spliff under the table because you know you're a bit of a geezer. And with the boys around to back you up, of course you're going to be loud- you're in your element aren't you?

A quick tequila (none of that salt and lemon shit, that's for fairies) and it's chucking out time. On goes the jacket and it's out into the cold. The wet stones shine under the streetlights and all pile round the corner of the bar to have a puff. Round it goes until everyone's nice and lit, the smoke adding to the alcohol buzz and rounding off the night nicely.

You say good night to the boys. Shame, we all used to live close together, but a man needs his independence. Plus, further into town is always a plus- living out in the boring outskirts will do you no good I said. Waiting for the bus I listen to a couple of wankers going on about fighting and 'the streets'- I just want to turn around and tell them that 'Yes, I can fucking hear you, and no I do not give a damn about your pathetic pikey lives.' Now where's that bus?

As it pulls up, I move to get on first which is only fair as I waited for ages for this one. But tweedledum and tweedletwat decide to test my patience. Idiot A looks me up and down whilst Idiot B barges my shoulder to get on the bus first. Big deal, the urban display of strength, establishing the alpha male pointlessly. So I do what I always do when I've had a couple of drinks: I tell him to fuck off and think nothing of it as they saunter to the top deck.

I spy my stop through the condensation on the window and press the bell. As the bus slows down, I check my pockets and the seat for loose valuables and make my way to the door, feeling hazy from the night. I thank the driver and step off again into the cold. Feeling somewhat blinkered, I pull out my phone to check that girl's name when it happens. It's not like a bad horror film, no sting of music to turn the mood from brooding to terror, but awkward and without poise, I suddenly realise that Idiots A & B have gotten off at the same stop and are approaching.

I turn around to them, still feeling the dutch inspired bravado of the evening to kindly ask them why they are following me, yet I only receive an harsh order to hand over my fucking phone, or else I might lose some blood. I call the bluff as the hero would do in the fairy tale and inform them of my intention to hold on to my belongings. This is when Idiot B pulls the flick-knife from his pocket. Even through this hideous cliche I began to feel scared. And not the knock-knees horror film terror, or even weed-related paranoia-based terror, but real and sickening terror, the sort of terror you feel when someone pulls out a knife and lunges at you with it.

It was quite funny really, you see it on televison often enough and in the harmless computer games which award killing sprees with virtual cash, but you nver stop to think what it might feel like to be stabbed. It felt like someone thrusting a metal blade into my side, that seemed to be the only real way to describe it. So, here we are, back at the start.

The pavement seemed to slow down slightly, or was it me running slower? I'm not sure any more, it's getting harder and harder to think clearly. Am I getting more drunk? What was that girl's name? I wonder what my Mum is doing right now?

I reach down to my side and feel the warm blood seeping out. I'm scared to touch the wound itself, but it's at least nice and warm out here now. I'm tired. I wonder what happened to those idiots? Huh, stupid boys, messing with me- I'm a big lad with a big heart. The heart of an ox, mighty and strong. I sit down heavily on the pavement, just need to rest for a minute, get my breath back, rest and relaxation, R&R time. I cough, deep and wet. Wipe my mouth- blood on my hands. Ha, the irony of it all, there's blood on my hands. Time to sleep, Mum'll wake me up in the moring, just close your eyes and sleep. Mum'll have a nice cup of tea for you in the morning...