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The extent to which love drives a man no one will ever be able to tell. Who drives to Hackney at 4am to leave a gift outside a girl's flat? And why? What the hell am I doing? I should just turn back! It’s not my fault Marisa’s dad is a-

Sorry let me explain my ramblings. Marisa and I are...Marisa is the girl I’m ridiculously in love with. She works at a steak house/restaurant in London Bridge. The same restaurant I used to work at before I left in a blaze of glory after swearing at the owner...her dad. So now I’m here leaving a sorry bouquet and a
box of chocolates outside her flat.

Well at least, that's what I had intended on doing, but as per usual, nothings ever straight forward with me. It’s like people just want to hold me back. If it’s not a random, desperate girl trying to get into my boxers its Larry the crack head. ‘Co-operative Larry’. I don't know who gave him the name but it made perfect sense. He’s always begging for money outside the cooperative petrol station. When he scrapes together enough pennies he goes and gets his fix and comes back looking like a possessed animal that has crept out of a dirty cave.

“Larry, man! What you doing out at this time?" (Rhetorical question, I know).

“I just need a fix bruv! I just need it innit, please man!” Larry pleaded. As he spoke, I noticed the missing teeth; he must have lost another three. He stunk of piss and gone-off cider. If I had a bigger heart I would have taken him home and got him cleaned up, at least a bath. But there's a line that my kindness just won't stretch to.

“Give me some damn change! Give it to me!!” he shouted…desperately high pitched.

I reached inside my pocket to get some loose change but it proved a mistake. Larry pulled out a knife. Before I could convince Larry to put down the sharpened kitchen appliance, Larry thrust the rusty blade into my gut. Paralyzed with shock and fear I held my stomach. I yelled out but there was no help. I could feel Larry rifling through my pockets but couldn't move. He didn't manage to find my wallet which was in my back pocket, so settled for the £2.50 in my jacket pocket and ran off.

The idiot could have waited and got twice as much. Why didn't he just wait?
At first I thought I was dreaming but there is something about the colour of blood that gives you a reality-check like no other. What a way to go out; stabbed by a crack head.

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