Cell 219

Publish date 18-09-2021

by Marco Grosseti

Bad luck and the underworld. The mouth always full of words, but what do you know? Go hungry here in the Barrier, the sweatshirts full of holes for the joints that we smoke in the barrio. We are the red zone and everyone stays away. If they were swag like torn jeans full of patches, no, the sweatshirts must be branded, deluxe edition, zero imperfections. Like shoes, new every two months or you're a loser. We look at our feet before looking into each other's eyes. The scary outfit to not be afraid.

Which now also runs like this in games. Like Fortnite. It is a game but it is not just a game. We learn from children how it works: life is a fight, everything is for sale in a shop, you are born nabbo and you have to become a pro. A friend of mine spends hundreds of euros every month. We also burn the money we do not have, that of daddy earned with overtime. Just enter the code and we buy the ballets to become cooler. We scam our guns and we also scam our friends. We play at night and now also in the morning. You closed the school.
We remove the audio and darken the camera, the teacher speaks but we have turned it off and we do not listen to a word.
We were born to kill and we laser her too. We just wanted to play and have fun, but you made us trolls, get rich with our troubles.
Everything is a challenge and only winning counts, we are always like in a reality show, we pretend to love each other but who is at the bottom of the ranking is just a loser to be banned.

We stick on Fortnite and then continue in attendance. We scream insults and curses until the neighbor knocks to ask to turn down the volume, not ours that of the play. We launch the joypad from the window.
Mom, will you buy me a new one or do I have to smash the wall with a punch too? We are called bro 'or fra', we use abbreviations and nicknames for those of our family. In war it is important to have allies, they told us this at school and we learned it on the street. Hunger in the eyes of these good boys: we don't want your scraps, we don't want to queue for food and stand in line for help. No one has ever understood us, we just want a normal life, to be beautiful and clean, to have cash for some whim. Easy bro ', a cigar doesn't calm us down, we want the 50 pieces in our pocket too, my mother's hopes like a train that doesn't pass.

Cell 219. Because we broke a showcase. Inside a cage since we came into the world, one night inside and we are legend. You let us go out the next day, even asking us to apologize. Losers, it's harder to jump to quit from Fortnite jail. I'm not a bad person, just as my brothers aren't bad. Never counted on any of us, I count them on my fingers, those of my gang. My father is not rich, my mother is not even, there is no work, but when we cut chocolate, we are full of plata. I write a song that rocks, mom at home praying. Go as it goes, here you risk or nada. Even tonight we do not sleep, we play to light the fire with a fire extinguisher. Bad luck is the underworld.

Marco Grossetti
NP May 2021

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