Death on the Streets

I found him where the city leaves its dead. Not in alleys. Not in gutters. Those are for the desperate, the forgotten. No, this one was right there on the open asphalt, under a sky that didn’t bother looking down.

The only thing left was a strip of something white—fabric, maybe. Could’ve been a bandage, a shirt sleeve, or the last remnant of a cheap motel pillow. It lay there like a question no one wanted to answer—twisted and broken, curling like it still remembered the shape of a body. The cops had come and gone. Chalk dust washed away by the morning drizzle. But the city doesn’t forget. It leaves scars. It whispers stories in the cracks of pavement and the oil-stained ghosts of tire tracks.

I lit a cigarette and let the smoke curl into the morning air. Death has a smell in this town—burnt coffee, wet pavement, and the faintest trace of something metallic that never quite washes away.

I didn’t know the guy. Not personally. But I knew his type. Someone who thought he could play the game without reading the rules. Maybe he owed the wrong people. Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time—which, in this city, is just about everywhere.

The wind shifted. The strip of fabric fluttered like a dying breath. A warning, maybe. Or a promise.

I took one last drag, flicked the butt into the street, and walked away. This city keeps its secrets. And so do I.