Eight Minutes From Park Station

Trust hummed the tune to “My Redeemer Lives” as he turned the corner into Rissik Street. The unwieldy weight of his spruce-top acoustic guitar danced across his back with each step. Trust always played back each song on the playlist in his head and reminded himself of what chords he needed to play and the changes in the strumming pattern at each section of the song. By the time he got to the last song, which was usually after about twenty minutes, he would be at Commissioner Street, in the safer part of Johannesburg. It was a nerve-wrecking experience, every Saturday, having to walk down Rissik Street whilst trying not to show just how terrified he was. He was eight minutes away from Park Station and halfway through song number three, “Take it all” when five, maybe six, unkempt boys who looked older than they should, surrounded him.

A short one stood in front of him placing his face uncomfortably close to his.”We don’t want to talk shit with you, just give us the phone, Baba,” he said.

Trust stuttered, “I, I don’t have a… ” He felt a sharp object press into his lower abdomen and complied. As the thugs fled in different directions, Trust took panicked breaths and, for the first time, smelled the stale alcohol from the short thug’s breath, and something else. White spots appeared in his eyes, blocking more and more of what he should have been seeing. Then black ones, yellow ones and red ones. He felt faint, and felt himself fall to the ground as a capacious pain shot out from where the knife had poked him. “At least they didn’t take my guitar,” he thought, as he fell to the pavement in slow motion. He heard the hollow thump of his guitar hitting the pavement, and then he heard nothing.

Comments

  1. shit is this real dude, thats F up man

    good writing though

    enjoyed reading it

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