Charlie

“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” The thought ran through my mind over and over: “You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” It was like a marching band traversing through my mind over and over as I slowly made my way down the quickly moving street.
“You're not a criminal yet.” The sound became louder and more obnoxious to match my ever-slowing footsteps. I felt as if I was crawling along a worn and beaten path, and the world around me had switched into super-speed; the people and cars going by in fractions of a second, not a one giving me a single glance.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I reached into my pocket and slowly traced the freshly-inscribed gang symbol along the sharp blade of my knife with a single finger. This was my ticket to happiness. This little piece of metal was to be my escape from the tormenting world of alcoholic fathers and relentless bullies: A sliver of steel turned into a sliver of hope, acceptance, and respect. A twitch of the lips sent my dull face into a slight hint of a smile as I focused upon this single thought.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” I grimaced—only slightly—and frowned once again as the torrential thought ripped its way into my confused mind once again. I glanced around nervously to see if anyone was watching me, but saw again only the blur of people and cars passing by while my own body seemed to move at the slowest pace possible. I turned my head back to stare straight ahead as I walked with all the determination I could muster so as not to looks suspicious. I even went so far as to remove the hood from my head.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.”
“DAMMIT!” I yelled, and clapped my hand over my mouth the moment the words left, terrified that some passer-by would suspect me.
“Everything alright?” the blur of motion slowed for a moment to reveal a concerned face several feet in front of me. I couldn't deduce a uniform, and so responded.
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.” The blur returned.
“You're not a criminal yet, Charlie.” it was all I could do to keep from turning and running home. I slid my finger along the freshly sharpened blade once more, reminding myself of the coming respect and acceptance.
“Just a few more steps.” I reminded myself, and looked around to confirm the whisper of a thought. I was struck with a sudden sense of panic as I came to the realization that the buildings surrounding me had joined the blur of people and cars. Nothing was deduce-able. Colors and lights blended together to form a massive, watery-like vision which flew in front of my eyes. I turned my head every which way, my eyes screaming for an escape route. Nothing. I ran, bumping into several things as I went, waiting for the reassuring thought to return to my head.
I reached for my knife, my finger sliding against the blade and screaming in pain as I did so. I felt a warm trickle run down my arm as I pulled out the weapon and swung it before me like a madman, trying to find some escape from the horrifying blur that was engulfing me.
“He's got a knife!” I heard a faint shout, and a thud as my blade connected with something solid—but not too solid—and sunk in enough to throw me off balance and knock me to the hard, blurry ground. I scrambled to get back on my feet, but was knocked over again by a heavy object. I cried out in pain, begging the reassuring thought to return and wipe my conscience clean.
I made no effort to stand up, and had lost the gang-emblazoned knife when I struck that unfortunate passer-by. A knee was pressed into my back, and cold steel tightened onto my clammy wrists.
“I'm not...a criminal...yet.” I panted slowly, but was silenced by a commanding voice.
“You have the right to remain silent....”