You walk down the street, your hand in your pocket. Feeling the three hundred dollars you just made, no thought except for what you'll do with it all.
Sellout. You deserve what's coming.
The sun's finally calling it a day—it's been one hell of a long one for you—as it lowers itself past the towering buildings. Glowing dimmer while its colors change. Yellows, oranges, reds. Descending into the darker hues of twilight. Deep reds streaking the night sky, like blood on asphalt pouring out endlessly from his side. Slowly soaking the soles of your shoes as you stare in shock…
Your hand reaches for your neck, in order to touch the necklace you wear. The one that you mindlessly count the beads on—all thirty-two of them. The one that your brother was wearing when he woke that morning. The one he'll never wear again.
A few feet ahead, the blaring of a truck’s horn brings you back to the streets, out of your spiraling thoughts. You stop so as to not get run over while at the same time bringing your hand down, off the necklace. This is when you realize that you’ve hit the outskirts of the inner city. The view has changed entirely. No more shiny skyscrapers, instead broken-down houses and shops, remnants of the old city. All of them waiting to be demolished so that newer things, better things, can replace them. Your eyes spot the house number—rotting away with the rest of the building—and you suddenly remember where your legs were taking you this whole time. You’d never been here before, but you were told you could come whenever. And even though it’s not like you, today you came. Today is a day you don’t want to remember. And because you're here, you’re making sure that by tomorrow today will have never happened.
Pathetic, running away from it all.
A bell sounds as you swing the door open. A few steps later you slide your hand into your pocket. You finger the crisp, clean twenties. All consecutive bills too. The guy that gave the money to the guy who paid you must be loaded. Probably some smug bastard living off the crimes committed by the rest of those under him—like you or like that punk you handed the ring to.
Some idiot behind the counter greets you. No time for formalities, you pull your sleeve up and show him the tattoo. He understands. You stare blankly at his face and ask him for something. Anything. Two hundred dollars worth of it. He eyes you, almost suspiciously, as his hands disappear underneath, noisily moving about. Then, an eternity later, he pulls out a small brown bag and the two of you exchange goods. Without a word of thanks, nor any other words, you turn, hurrying to your next destination: the nearest bar.
You enter the first bar of the night. Within five minutes, you’ve already downed six shots, prepping for the next three. The bar tender says nothing, knowing all too well the mood you’re in. So long as you pay—which you will, you do have a hundred dollars—and keep quiet, he leaves you alone.
The smoke hanging around, from the cigarettes of other customers, makes the air heavy, hard to breathe. A feeling you’ve known for as long as you can remember. All those years of second-hand smoking and it's a wonder you don't actually smoke. Or maybe you just learned to hate it at an early age. Doesn't matter right now, you've just finished number eight of God-only-knows how many. Still, the smell draped throughout, you can't help but picture your mom, a lit cigarette constantly wedged between her fingers.
Then suddenly, her screams come to your ears, shrill and deafening, an echo from a few hours ago. They’re telling you to leave, that you’re not welcome. How she’d never give it to you to sell to those horrible people that killed your brother. You try to explain that it’s for her own safety. Besides, it’s only a ring. Her wedding ring, she shrieks back, out of control. She doesn’t get it; she’s not listening. By this point you just don’t care enough, you're exhausted, the day had been dragging on for a while already. With a sigh you hit her. Quick, cruel, brutal, absolutely no remorse. Right to the head. And she’s out cold. You pause, almost in disbelief, but soon recover. There's hardly a shred of emotion left in you. Especially not for her. Kneeling down, you grab her left hand and remove one of the three rings on it, carefully placing it into your pocket.
It's disgusting, the things you do.
With no idea of how many shots and drinks you've had, you decide that you're drunk enough to take out the little paper bag. The one full of something. Anything. You unwrap it to find another small bag—this one clear—curled up inside. And in that one, a small lump of some white powder. You pour a few lines-worth out and follow what you've seen so many others do before. Fast forward a few seconds, that seem to you minutes, and you're already wiping your nose, though doing a poor job removing any leftovers. This is when he notices, the bartender. The stray white marks on the table, a rolled up twenty. He starts freaking out and calls over some of the other men, most likely the usual drinkers. With only enough time to stuff the something back in a pocket, you feel countless hands grab at you. Lifting you. Leaving you a few feet outside the entrance to the bar. Oh well, you think, time for round two...

And somehow you make it past round three, your money all gone afterwards. You even managed to not get caught with your mini stash, though you didn't dare take it out again. But now you're alone, and it's too late for anybody walking around to really care. So you're reaching into your pocket, and stumble down to the ground, drunk off your ass and definitely high on the something. You laugh—giggle really—losing yourself in the concoction of drugs.
Looking up, a hand. Trying to help you? You take a few deep breaths, to steady yourself and make sure not to miss it, then slowly reach upwards. Pawing towards it, a child begging for his mother. Before it even registers, the hand has already snatched your arm. Somewhere from behind, another pair grabs your shirt, pulling you back. Dragging you into an empty side-street where nobody can see you. And where, if anybody actually heard something, nobody would bother checking.
Finally, once all of you are in the dark, the arms let you go. Here you can see their shadows against the light of the main street. There are two of them. So this guy, one of the two, he points a gun at your face. Close enough for you to smell the gunpowder. He takes you by your shirt, right where you wear the necklace. He’s yelling, something about a ring. But you don’t much care, the something still doing its work on you. Oh, and the alcohol. He then smacks you with the butt of his gun, to get your attention. And once the world stops spinning, you find that you’re half listening.
He pulls on your collar again, and continues. The ring. It wasn't the one they wanted. You gave them some cheap piece of shit.
What he's saying, it sounds familiar; you faintly recall something along those lines. Taking the wrong ring on purpose, without giving it a second thought. It should have been obvious that they would come for you, yet you did it. Somehow in your mind it must have made sense at the time. Or, perhaps you actually felt some sort of sympathy. Perhaps you actually cared about your mother underneath this whole tough guy act you put up. Perhaps you cared for her like you cared about your brother. A love which allowed you to devote yourself to him. Even when he decided to join them. Their “brotherhood.”
And maybe you aren’t so bad after all. Maybe it's a little much for what you did. You might not actually deserve all of it.
Apparently, he doesn't agree. He knows you're useless, too drunk and drugged to even say your name. Once again, you feel hands, the other guy's. This time, though, they're searching for anything you might have on you, hopefully the money. Instead they find the bag of something you got from that beat-up shack on the outskirts. The guy with the gun screams, a roar really—too bad nobody's listening. Then you find yourself off the ground, your feet dangling in the air. But a split second later, you're slamming down to the pavement, the pain hitting you after what seems to be forever. And somewhere far away, footsteps echo, getting fainter.
A few moments later, disoriented, you hear another noise, just barely noticeable. The sound of beads bouncing and rolling along concrete. Your mind stops.
Like the trained idiot you are, you begin yelling, springing back to your feet in a drunken—more drugged at this point—anger. Normally, you wouldn’t do something so stupid, you’ve learned not to after so many years. You're also supposed to be smarter than that, but all the toxic little drugs coursing through you are doing all the talking now. The two of them turn around. So you begin to scream at them at the top of your lungs. How the necklace was your brother’s. How he died earlier that day. How some asshole killed him for refusing to “retrieve” your mom's wedding ring. Shot him four times. How you weren't able to take him to the hospital so, right there in the middle of the road, he bled to death.
And then how, after all of that, you were expected to get it. The ring.
You're babbling, half your words completely unintelligible. Not to mention that, by this point, the guy’s getting tired of you. Annoyed. He walks up to you and you plan to swing at him. Even if he has a gun. But all you see is a blur before you feel a blow to the side of your head, right by the temple.
And now, everything goes black.

You wake up, it's tomorrow. You're sober, conscious—beat up as hell, but still alive—and very much aware of a massive headache. Along with it, memories of the previous day come rushing back. Your brother, his death, the ring, the small pouch of something, the bars, the two guys, the gun... Seems like your little plan of not-remembering failed.
Yet, after all that, you're still forgetting something. It takes you a moment to remember what exactly, but it comes to you: the necklace! Desperately scrambling, you search for the beads. Even if the string that held them is broken, you can still put it back together with enough beads. You spend ten minutes looking, scanning the street.
There, sitting on the pavement, face blank, too tired to feel anything, you remember what they told you. Before they let you join, or anybody for that matter, they always warn you. They tell you that before you join, before you can get the tattoo, before you are a member of this brotherhood, you have to be ready to lose everything. To be sacrificed without a second thought. And the tragic part is that you gave everything up. Everything you cared about. Everyone you gave a shit for. And they—the guy with the gun, the dealer, the bartender, the punk—didn't even have the decency of taking you too.
By this point you realize that you're missing some beads, a lot of them. Thirteen you count. You knew you had it coming, but this may have been more than what you deserved.