daniel -- d3 ~ fin

I curl my hands into fists and listen to the broken men sing.

At least, that's how I imagined how clock towers worked when I was ten. A genius with an empty heart, gathering up fatherless boys and broken men and putting them to work. Every chime brought on by the fresh crack of a whip and every stall signifying the death rattle of another broken man failing to put himself back together again. A genius with an empty heart, slicing out the tongues of the ones who dared speak back to him and repeating his mantra, "this is time we're building." Whipping them by the hour, breaking them by the minute. I saw genius in every clock tower I walked past and heard broken men in every bell that rang.

When I'm left alone and fantasy eclipses reality, I find myself remembering how I perceived the mechanics of time. Driven the only way I knew; blood, sweat and tears. I wonder, why I feel such a calling to the ones who are broken beyond repair; the frail addicts throwing their skint wealth at my feet, the desperate whores looking for someone to take them for the night and the fallen soldiers begging for a touch of mercy with blood stains on their lips and scars on their hands. The ones who weren't careful with where their life was heading, the ones who were all too eager to bury whatever semblance of normality they had beneath pills and bottles and booze.

The ones like me, yet I'm not the one broken.

I click my knuckles, the touch of warmth against my skin intoxicating, yet the shadow of the clock tower that looms over me is humbling. The ones who broke beneath the pressures of whatever hardships life threw at them and lost themselves to euphoria, thinking they could actually carry the world on their shoulders just because they were high. They're the broken ones, the ones who bury their dignity beneath their skin and cough their insides onto the ground. A contrast to me, yet a bitter reminder of what could have been.

I count myself lucky. The fact that I'm at least well-fed and never find myself missing a meal. Now I'm well-filled out and strong, strong enough to lift a spiked bat and bring it down with a heavy hand and a weightless heart. I run my hand through my rough, dark hair, wondering if I should be thanking some kind of god or outside force that I have a way to clean it if I need to. That it hasn't become matted with dust and grime as I sit heavy beneath a bridge, suffering in silence as I wait for my next hit. I'm ragged, I get dirty but I live as opposed to survive, I laugh as opposed to cough. I breathe as opposed to wheeze.

I run my hand over the facial hair along my jaw, blue eyes focusing on the humbling shadow of time scattering across space and I smile because I don't know what else to do. And while there's no one watching me I make sure the grin isn't toothy because I grew to hate the sight of my teeth growing up, dental care is tough to come by after all. Still, suppose there isn't much to complain about; if someone was here that wasn't supposed to be here I'd kick their fucking ass. My knuckles have long since swollen into shades of black and blue from the amount of jaws they've kissed, the stomach's they've sunken into and the bones they've smashed. And while I wasn't always the biggest cunt in the room, even to this day standing at only 5'11, I would certainly always be the first to strike true.

It always came naturally.

They saw it, my old family who's memories I buried beneath the fresh chimes of this clock tower and the bruises forming along my fists. Their oldest son with a high marginal propensity to tend towards violence; breaking this bone, opening this scar -- they grew frustrated with their wanton son who seemed so determined to bury his traits beneath shades of red. A hooligan without a conscience, a madness without a structure but I found myself still wondering if they loved me all the same. Pushing the boundaries and testing how far love could stretch before it finally snapped. Shattering with the creaking of my shoulders and the cracking of my fists.

Two brothers and one sisters and I was supposed to be the one setting the example by virtue of being born one year older than the next oldest and being the first to reach some form of maturity. We were never close, me and my siblings because I was more interested in getting high in secret, fighting people who got in my way and being a general pain in the ass. We weren't rich and we weren't poor but we got by and I suppose that's what they were grateful for and they could see it all crumbling beneath the weight of my steel touch and heavy boot.

The needles beneath my bed were the perfect excuse to be rid of the source of their madness.

"Well fuck you too then!"

I left with a bag of clothes and my middle finger shoved in their faces. I lost the name Churchill that day, striking it through with fire and blood.

Sometimes, when I'm left alone beneath this clock tower I find myself wondering if I'd do anything differently if those hands would turn back and I could redo the paths I took and the crossroads I traversed. Sometimes, I wonder if they loved me when they kicked me out or if it was lost somewhere beneath the curses, the needles and the fists. I quickly come to the conclusion that it's negligible, actions speak louder than intentions buried beneath your chest after all.

I had the clothes on my back, my bag full of clothes and a wallet stuffed with cash in my pocket so I took to the first place I knew I'd feel at home. The bar helped, I found myself downing shot after shot and stumbling out at midnight when they decided I'd had enough and waking up a couple miles north from it. I became vagabond, searching for an existence but somehow I felt right at home living that way, without a sense of direction. Despite the rough nights and the close calls. I constructed a system from the ashes of my family's love and the foundations of my survival instinct. Travel through the district, find a bar, find a nice enough girl who'd take me in the for the night after some sweet talking and just repeat.

It was never smooth and no plan could be drawn out crystal clear and survive its first encounter with the bite of reality. People got in the way, motherfuckers looked at me funny, a sleazy fucker gave me a wrong look and I'd find myself entangled in another scrap. Bruising my fists, clenching my teeth and bloodying my nails. Of course I won, I always fucking won because I followed the golden rule. Always hit first.

Happens more often than I thought.

I don't remember when he noticed me, only that he did. When I rammed one enemy's head into a window and found myself thrown out of yet another bar. He came out, hands stuffed into his pockets and hat hanging over his eyes. "That was a pretty brutal display back there."

I raised my eyebrows, taking deep breaths to calm the white storm tearing through my insides. "Yeah, and what?" That's the point of fights after all, you have to be as brutal as possible or else you lose. Still, I expected a lecture. "If you're gonna say what I think you're gonna say then save your breath. I know I'm a fucking disgusting savage." Anyone with a semblance of authority made sure to remind me every time a fresh shade of black and blue found its way onto my flesh.

"What's wrong with being a savage? I ain't here to judge you, kid."

I think that's where he got my full attention.

"The world needs savages like you, else life would be boring as hell."

He smiled and so did I.

"You got a place to stay?" He asked.

"No, family kicked me out. They didn't see the need for savages like me." I tried not to dwell on it, it's always been easier that way.

"Well ain't that their loss? Come with me, I can put ya to good use."

I slept in this clock tower that night.

They made me into something the next morning. Something more than just an unfortunate soul that's vagabond through the streets without a purpose, waiting for the day his breath in stolen. They gave me a purpose, sell drugs and sell I do. That's the thing, you need savages like me because anyone else wouldn't have the stomach to do what I do. If someone doesn't pay up I have to set them straight with my fists or a bat. Broken men and women without a hope in the world, someone needs the stomach to set them straight when they step out of line. I'm irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, nothing compared to the older veterans who run this thing like it's their own little empire; I'm nothing more than a foot solder and a chest piece trying to make his way up in the world so I run my hands red in a river of blood without a second thought.

I shattered a homeless junkie's hand on my first week.

A skinny man, no older than me but so broken. A gaunt look in his eyes, a broken look in his face, he had no chance against someone like me but it had to be done, had to teach him not to fuck with us by not paying when it's time. I remembering the way his skeleton crack when my bat connected with his bone and the way he screamed when he begged for mercy and something welled up beneath my chest. It was one thing to fight a drunk prick in a bar and another thing to shatter a reflection of what I could've been if things went slightly differently.

To this day I carry on anyway, letting my heavy heart become desensitized to the withering of my humanity. Now it's exactly how I imagined, the way I imagined the clock tower would chime with the sounds of broken men -- yet it's far more real than the simple chime of time.

It's far too easy to listen to the broken men sing; it's a good thing the world needs savages like me.