“What’s your first name?”

“Peter”

“And your last name?”

“Nobody”

“What?” Exclaimed the journalist.

Hello, my name is Peter and I’ve got the nickname of “Nobody” for two reasons. One, it was because at the age of seven years old, when my mother died, the pimp who pretended to be as my father thrown me out to the street. Why? He needed the room where we used to live in to continue with his business. And second, because just that year a Spanish song, “Peter Nobody”, of a certain argentine singer named as Piero, was a hit.

Yes, at that tender age I was a no nobody’s son … Peter Nobody.

Saying, “I’m a street boy”, it’s just a phrase or an empty expression, which means nothing for those who don't know what is like to be an abandoned boy. I strolled for years and slept in the bleakness of streets until… Did somebody rescue me? No, but until I became a teen.

My only “friends” were other kids like me with whom we organized our gang to be able to survive, which means to steal everyday the every day’s bread. We couldn’t make it against stronger people than us, as you will be able to imagine.

So I learned and I developed inside me the street code behavior. And the first hint that I got in my mind was that we should only attack to the weakest. Therefore I only assault and steal old women and men, pregnant women or with the baby in their arms, blind men or lame beggars, or defenseless rich kids too. That was the way I learned how to take care of myself.

It’s not a waste of time to tell you that my life wasn’t an amusing adventure, by no means, but a terrible misfortune that marked me forever. That night, as soon as I arrived to the group, the older kids raped me. And they repeated it as many times as they wanted, until I learned how to use my knife, and I stabbed one to make myself respect.

The coldness and heat of my street life hardened the skin of my body, but also for the beatings that I took from my own friends. Others times for the fights against enemy bands, or when I fell caught for my victims or the police.

I learned, from that tender age, that if somebody came closer to me and lifted his hand it was to attack me or to molest me. Same as the priest of the church did in exchange of a plate of food and a roof to sleep. But he didn’t imagine that my self-defense intuition was already shaped and at the first dirty pawed “I sliced” his face with my inseparable and faithful friend, my knife.

Later, when my needs grew up, means to drug me, we begin to steal bigger people because we needed more money. It was when I began to stand out in the group for my cruelty. I attacked without mercy to anyone, without caring me the disadvantages for their size or stoutness. With the only advantage that gave me to I stab them first, and then, when they screamed seeing their own blood, my gang assaulted him.

It was this way how I became the leader of the gang, but, undoubtedly, I had “to take down” the boss first in a clean fight, surrounded by all and under the moonlight. In the fight, after I received several cuts on the arms, the ‘son of a bitch’ falls in my trap when I pretended to be weakest to mislead him. He trusted on the street code, when I faked tumble down.

He believed that it was the right moment to finish with me, and when he lifted his arm to give me the final stab, I stabbed him first right in his nuts… Did he die? I don't know and we neither cared, because we left him on the ground. We walked away to the beach to celebrate with a bag full of glue that we inhaled to feel happy and to avoid the coldness. That way I became the leader and we didn’t know any more about him. Ah, it is not a waste of time to remark that it was him who had led to whom raped me the night when I arrived to the group.

At the age of 12 years old I already had my own gang, the one that nobody gave me as a gift but I won for my dexterity with the knife and my cruelty.

But suddenly something began to change in me at that age, something that I could not explain, and I didn't have anybody to ask. My voice changed, hair covered my pubis and I began to dream. It was exactly the moment when a 10 years old girl and her little brother arrived to the group, and in the night the gang wanted to rape her. The rape to newcomers was a natural matter for all of us, for our code, being boy or girl, there was not difference, we had passed through it as a baptism, but it wasn’t for me.

“Nobody touch her damned!!!… -I roared, and I took out to glitter my knife -… and anyone that gets near to her I’ll stab to death!!!”

“Ok, ok Peter… It’s ok bro… If you want her only for you, it’s ok,” the one that pretend to be my second one in the band said despite being bigger than me.

“Fuck none!!!… From now on not more baptisms in my gang!”

That night I went to sleep away of the group, and I hidden among the darkness I cried. In the coldness of my cardboards and clothes bed I remembered my mother and the last teacher that I had in the school.

I remembered that we used to live in a piece of shit hotel room. But it was my home, where my mother made my meals, loved me and at the bedtime she tucked me saying: “Little Peter, my sonny boy, dreams with angels”.

Therefore that night I cried, I cried as I’d never done it all this years, and among my tears I remembered my school’s friends, my teachers and my games… And I missed them all.

Luckily, I learned to read in the school. Since I lived on the street and I slept in the landfills, I read as much as I could do it. So, I devour with my eyes any piece of newspapers or stories for children every time they fall in my hands.

Therefore, the next day that I forbid the rapes I began to teach reading to my close friends, of course that it was after the assaults. What would you think or expected from a delinquents boy as me? Do I have food and roof free? No, I learned that everything has a price in the life and that I have to get it myself in the only way the society has taught me. And I warn to anyone that comes closer to me with the lifted hand, to hit me or to caress me, it will receive a cut in the face… or maybe more.

“Hey, if you wanna talk me… make it from a distance, asshole!!!… Otherwise, I cut your neck mother’s fuc#*& …!”

“To be continuing…?” the journalist asked.

“What should we do?” I ask you.