Fuck yr gangs

Ok then this is like a challenge alright? So you Google some country: Palestine, Chile, Turkey, Rwanda, Ireland, Afghanistan, East Timor, Aotearoa…whateva; just close your eyes and stab. Sweet? Now dive in deep girlfriend. Go on, fucking jump...

The young woman is frantic, driven, clutching tight a blanket wrapped bundle that is her sick child, zig-zagging towards the hospital. She knows there is a curfew in force and keeps herself low, but no, - BANG - the boy-soldier carefully shoots her through the head. He doesn't bother to check the crumpled figure. The woman’s husband finds her body the next day amongst the rubble of their world, the blood soaked child still thankfully alive beneath her. Exactly one year later he lays tender kisses on the face of this same beautiful daughter as she sleeps peacefully in her bed. But the sweeter kiss of martyrdom beckons; he becomes a suicide bomber. Most of his victims are civilians, only a few are real soldiers.

There will have to be revenge.

Our Peacekeepers are good; they teach the local police how to carefully place electrodes in mouths, on genitals, soles of feet. Hot, cold, hanging from rafters never allowed to sleep. They pull nails, drill holes, slice off fingers, tongues, breasts, hands and feet. They rape everyone. They strangle a six-month-old baby in front of its mother, toss the still-warm body into the hole with her, bury them both till the earth stops her screams.

They were on the wrong side.

They, them, us.

Jeremy was only seventeen but tough shit, he was on the wrong fucking side; west of the river was not his turf. I can remember him from school, he wasn't in any of my classes, but I'd see him about – he was okay, didn't give me any shit. Down at the beach when the fireworks were going mad this other kid leaned in through the open car window to stab him twice in the chest. His last words were “eastside forever.”

Seventeen years; forever.

Our school counsellor is pretty solid, I'll give her that. Funky clothes, the jewellery, happy chaos just looking presentable. Bouncy as. From the posters and leaflets around her office I figure that to change this miserablefuckingworld I'll have to join Greenpeace, SAFE, or Amnesty International; Youthline are always looking for sympathetic ears if you've rich in time and not money. Yeah.

I don't see any crystals thank Christ.

It was a slow start, pretty awkward, but she's moved her chair from out behind her desk so we're mates now, connecting. I giggle at the thought of us sharing a joint, talking about how fucked up this world is getting. Oh yeah, I bet she'd be a hoot stoned eh.

There's a faded certificate up on the wall, almost lost amongst the riot of youth-target imagery and the writing is too small to see what she qualified in - dog obedience? Open questions hang in front of me for what seems like eternity before bobbing gently up up and away over another kid just not fucking listening. She's keen; keeps em coming. Always the good cop. I relax.

Channelling. Don't think I've ever used that word before but it just flows off her lips. Like, if we can just channel this anger into more legitimate outlets... Quite popular. Might have yawned at that last one.

Nodding blankly in the appropriate pauses, I'm half watching the sludge-like progress of the river way out behind her, making the most of being on the second floor high above rugby fields with its scattering of bored mooching kids hustling for a life, a ciggie. The Whanganui River ain't listening either, totally illegitimate the way it throws its weight around, always busting out and fucking with the humans. I like it. The eastside, westside kids staring across at each other, hating each other for this slight geographical difference. Dicks. A good flood will sort them out. I'm busy wondering if the water will make it this far when she mentions my shocking crime. Now I'm listening.

I don't tag, I protest. Have you seen my name anywhere? Dumb bitch, she ain't that good. Does she think my name is 'fuck yr gangs' or something? She tries it on eventually: pen down, quick bum shuffle and a I've-solved-it rub of the hands: So Ruby have you thought about joining... before I loose it proper.

The answer is not Greenpeace you fucking hippy! I yell into her maddening calmness. They're pissing on us, they're laughing! More shouting, arms thrown about. Her face is flushed, eyes angry and she asks me to leave; please.

Ok, sweet, I'm fucking out of here.

Leaving is easy. Always is. Apologising next week ain't going to be. Oh well, getting plenty of practice in. Sorry Miss; very sorry Miss. Yes it's my problem eh.

When I was little I was good; you know, their idea of good. Went to church every week, prayed so hard my knees hurt. I used to get real upset at the sight of Christ dying up there on the cross for me; so much pain. Wanted to pull those horrible nails out and put plasters on to make him all better, make him smile again. No such luck eh? Plastic Jesus. Made in China. I used up two felt pens covering the 'I Love Jesus' on my school bag; my first big relationship bust up - lucky there were no tattoo's eh? It was easy really, pulling those fucking nails out of my head and jumping the fence.

Man, the other side, I tell ya it's a long way down. In this zine I read, it says 'a mind once opened is never closed'. Like it's a good thing or something.

I kill an hour in the toilets listening to the tinkles and the grunts and the gossip before the last bell goes to signal freedom. On the field I bludge half a rollie off a familiar face. There's quite a crowd here today. Funny how that despite our loathing of school a lot of us stick about after. It's safer than home for some, someone to talk to and it beats drifting about town eh.

Fucken hate shopping.