What makes a man....

This city. Why do I stay in this city? Its darkness has made me dark inside. I'm not going to tell you I was a saint before I set foot here. But I know I wasn't this bad. How is it that the ones that are supposed to uphold the law are as corrupt as the ones breaking them?

I couldn't find these answers. Not at the bottom of a bottle, not in the eyes of a criminal, not on the news, not in my own head. I've realized we are all shades of who we wanted to be.

Me? I don't know what I wanted to be. I can't remember anything before I got here. But I know what I am now. Or at least I think I know. I'm a two-faced, scheming, no good detective. Smoke three packs a day, and drown it down with bourbon. The alcohol keeps the thoughts of "leaving" at bay, but why shouldn't I just let them in. I hear they make great house guests.

Too many people die in this city, but it seems like after one death occurs ten more people move here in their place. Searching for something of their own, but not ever finding it. They end up just falling down a dark hole, never seeing the light ever again.

If i could I'd burn this city to the ground and hopefully that would put these broken souls to rest. They linger in every alley, every shadow, they stay in the darkness with everything else.

If i had the opportunity could I go through with it? Would I be held back? Would I hold myself back? I can't take much more of this.

Every innocent face I see becomes tainted after three weeks of being here. Nothing I know is right anymore.

Maybe tonight I'll be able to sleep soundly, while the sirens ring out across the street tops.

One match, one can of gasoline, one more decision. My last choice, to do the right thing. Like I always told myself I would do.

Rest in peace.