​Chapter 3: The Climb To The Decline

I barely made it out the Food Mart before I felt it—that heavy-ass energy.

The type that made your instincts scream.

Three niggas stood by the corner store, posted up like they owned the block.

One had a gold grill, grinning like he already knew what was ‘bout to happen.

Another had tattoos snaking up his neck, eyes sharp, locked on me.

The last one—the one in the middle—was holdin’ a plastic bag.

I knew what was in it before he even spoke.

"Yo," the one with the grill called out. "Where you from lil nigga?"

I wiped my hands on my jeans, tryin’ to play it cool. "Right up the block."

They studied me.

"Clown nigga, right?" the tattooed one said, squintin’. "You be at the fair?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "That’s me."

The dude in the middle smirked, liftin’ the baggie just enough for me to see the white rocks inside.

"You party, clown nigga?"

I blinked. "Huh?"

He shook the bag. "I’m talkin’ ‘bout this."

Crack.

"First one’s on the house," he added. "You look like a nigga that need it."

I ain’t say nothin’.

Didn’t step closer. Didn’t step back.

I just stood there.

My whole body was tellin’ me to get the fuck outta there. This ain’t me. This ain’t my life.

"Nah, I’m good," I said finally, liftin’ my hand. "Ima stick to my reffa."

Silence.

Then the gold-grilled nigga laughed.

"Nah, nigga," he said, steppin’ forward. "You gone take this rock."

I felt my stomach drop.

"As a matter of fact," he continued, voice smooth, too smooth, "Since you wanna be smart, you gotta do it right here in front of us."

My heart started poundin'.

"Nah," I said, shakin’ my head. "I’m straight, bro."

I turned quick, tryna make a break for it.

But I ain’t get far.

A hand snatched my collar, yankin’ me back so hard I damn near lost my breath. Before I could react, fists started flyin’.

A punch to the ribs—felt like a hammer.

Another to the face—stars exploded in my vision.

I hit the ground, pavement scrapin’ my cheek, my ears ringin’.

Footsteps shuffled around me.

"Hold his ass down," someone muttered.

Hands gripped my arms, pinned me to the concrete.

I gasped, blood already poolin’ in my mouth. "Yo, chill—"

"Shut the fuck up," tattooed dude hissed.

Next thing I knew, the glass pipe was pressed against my lips.

"Hit that shit," grill nigga ordered. "Or we blow your fuckin’ head off."

I could feel the cold metal of a gun nudgin’ my temple.

My body locked up.

I ain’t never been this scared in my life.

I wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t supposed to be my story.

"Nah, man, please—"

"Smoke that shit, clown-ass nigga."

The lighter flicked.

The pipe heated.

Smoke curled up in front of my face.

I had no choice.

With shaking hands, I inhaled.

The second it hit my lungs, everything changed.

​