On another bank holiday in some dusty place, The call comes in and we’re out on the chase. It’s me and two other guys, just doing the job, When we see three looters heading off with the rob. One of them starts to run, and the orders are clear, I’m not the only one feeling that spike of fear. We all open fire at the exact same time, Three of us letting go, committing the crime. I see every round as it rips through the air, It’s like I’m watching in slow motion, I swear. It’s not like the movies, it’s messy and raw, He’s inside out, and I’m shaken by what I saw. One of my mates just tosses the guy’s guts back in, Like he’s clearing up litter or a tipped-over bin. They cart him off in a lorry, out of our sight, And I’m left there standing in the midday light. End of story, right? That’s what I thought. But it’s not a lesson that can ever be taught. I go home on leave, I fly back to the UK, Thinking the distance will make it all go away. But I’m walking down the street to buy a drink, And I’m back on that corner before I can blink. I step over the curb and I see his blood again, Soaking into the pavement like shadows and rain. I close my eyes and he’s behind my lids, Tearing through my sleep like a pack of wild kids. The drinks don’t drown him, the pills don’t work, He’s always there in the corner, a permanent lurk. He’s not a ghost from some ancient history book, He’s a real, breathing man with a terrified look. And here’s the thing that’s keeping me awake: It wasn’t just a dream or a simple mistake. He’s stuck in my head, miles away from the sand, And I’ve got his bloody life all over my hands.
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