by Rob Winters

The night is young when we go round the building with a faint bleak flicker of desire distilled in our eyes. In the dark alley we waste no further time and all of us strap the black leather belts we were wearing a moment ago around our milky white arms. The HIV infected needle is passed around and re-used, over and over again, until all of us lean back against the wall with hysterical mad smiles of starving depravity and utter satisfaction. After a while a loaded silence creeps into the alley, the possibility of disease and agonizing time consuming death struggles, while your body is slowly decomposing, has started to hit home now. The doubt is slowly spreading through our ranks, the deed is done, this is no hypothesis, the theory might be proven right or might be proven wrong and suddenly your mind goes a blank, shuts down at a horrible realization: we’re atheists. If God doesn’t exist, there’s not way to beat him.


Rob Winters is an undergraduate English Literature and Creative Writing student at the University of Westminster.