​Chapter 6: Day 1

​

Keisha slid through the window smooth, like she done this a hundred times before.

She wasn’t dressed for nothin’ special—oversized Tupac tee, biker shorts, her hair tied up in a bun.

First thing she did? Pulled out a fat-ass joint and a pint of Henny.

"Here," she said, handin’ me the shot. "You need somethin’ to take the edge off."

I ain’t argue. I snatched the bottle, twisted the cap, and threw the liquor back.

It burned goin’ down, but not as bad as today burned.

Keisha plopped on the bed next to me, sparking a blunt, the room fillin’ with that sweet, skunky smell.

She took a long pull, held it, then blew the smoke toward the ceiling.

"Start talkin’," she said, handin’ me the joint.

So I did.

Told her everything.

How them niggas stopped me, how I tried to run, how they beat my ass. How they forced that pipe to my lips, made me hit it.

She was quiet the whole time, just listenin’—that’s how she do, all introspective and shit.

When I was done, she took another drag and exhaled slow.

"That’s fucked up, Joe," she finally said, voice low.

I nodded, rubbin’ my jaw. "I’m gettin’ them niggas back."

Keisha side-eyed me. "Yeah? How?"

I stared at the floor, thinkin’.

I ain't have a plan yet. But I knew one thing—I wasn't gonna let this ride.

"They gone see me again," I muttered. "Just not how they expect."

Keisha sighed, leanin’ back against my bed frame. "Shit always gotta be an action movie with you, huh?"

I ain’t respond.

She ain’t push it.

Instead, we just passed the joint back and forth, sittin’ in silence, lost in our own heads.

Eventually, she yawned, stretchin’ out across the bed.

"Move over, nigga," she grumbled, shovin’ me.

I rolled to the side, lettin’ her get comfortable.

We ain’t never had no weird energy between us. We was best friends, nothing more, nothing less.

She knew she could crash at my spot without me tryin’ no dumb shit.

And I knew she was the only person in my life who actually gave a fuck.

The Next Morning

Keisha was gone by the time I woke up.

Just a folded note on my nightstand.

“Don’t be stupid, nigga.”

I smirked.

Too late for that.

I washed up, threw on some fresh clothes, and decided to go see my baby mama.

Shit was long overdue.

Before I left, I grabbed my pocket knife—just in case I ran into them niggas again.

I was walkin’ past Big Ray’s Wings & Things when I saw a dude leanin’ up against the wall.

Mexican cat.

Fresh blue Dickies suit, Nike Air Max Tailwinds, tattoos all up his neck.

He was eatin’ a plate of wings, but the way he was watchin’ the street told me he was about somethin’ else.

I hesitated.

Then, before I could stop myself, I walked up.

"Yo," I said, keepin’ my voice casual. "You know where I can get some rock?"

He took another slow bite of his wings, licked the sauce off his fingers, then finally said, "Cien dólares, cabrón."

A hundred dollars.

I ain’t have that.

"I ain’t got it all on me right now," I admitted. "But I can pay you back."

That got his attention.

He put his plate down on the hood of his car, turned to face me fully.

"Así no funciona, güey."

That ain’t how this works.

I licked my lips, tryna keep my cool. "Come on, man. Just front me a little. I’ma get you right. I work at the carnival right up the street. I aint far. Let a nigga get some rock."

He studied me for a second.

Then he grinned.

"Okay," he said, reachin’ into his pocket. "I’ma front you."

I let out a breath.

"But if I don’t get my money?" He leaned in, voice droppin’ low. "I’ma kill you and ya whole family, cabrón."

My stomach twisted.

But I nodded like I understood.

He pulled out a small baggie, pressed it into my hand.

"Pa’ que te pongas chido," he muttered.

For you to get right.

I ain’t waste no time.

I stuffed the crack into my pocket and got the fuck outta there.

​

I scrambled behind an abandoned building, heart poundin’, palms sweaty.

Pulled the baggie out, stared at it.

Then realized—I ain’t have shit to smoke it with.

"Fuck," I muttered, my hands shakin’.

That’s when I saw him.

Old head sittin’ in the corner, raggedy clothes, sunken face, glass pipe in his fingers.

His junky eyes met mine, already knowin’ what I was about to ask.

I pointed at his pipe. "Lemme use that."

He let out a raspy chuckle, shakin’ his head. "Hell nah, youngblood. You gone have to let me hit that too—whatever you got. Hook a nigga up."

I held up the rock. "I’ll share."

The junkie licked his lips, considered it.

Then said “Ok I get first hit though yungin."

My jaw clenched.

I ain’t have time for this shit.

But I needed it.

"Fine," I grumbled, handin’ him the rock.

He grinned, put the pipe to his lips, sparked up, and inhaled deep.

His eyes rolled back, body relaxin’ like he getting some head or something.

"Fuuuuuuck, youngblood, you got some good shit, boy!" he moaned, his whole body shiverin’.

Then, outta nowhere, he started doin’ a stupid-ass dance—some shaky, offbeat, noodle-limbed two-step like his knees was made of rubber. Looked like a crackhead with ants crawling up his legs.

Then he handed the pipe to me.

I ain’t hesitate.

Took my first real hit—on my own terms this time.

And just like that—I was gone.

I went to the spiritual geek’d nigga Netherrealm, where weed clouds floated through the sky, shapeshifting into fat-ass blunts and backwoods. Below me, the land was covered in mountains of crack rock, and every breeze smelled like fresh smoke.

I was in  Nigga paradise. Lets just call it Niggadise!

When I came back down, the old head was watchin’ me, waiting, looking all space out.

The high was just as good as before.

Maybe better.

And for a moment, I felt grateful.

Then I made a decision.

I don’t even know why I did it.

Fear. Guilt. Desperation.

All I know is one second, I was standin’ there...

The next, my fist was slammin’ into his jaw.

He yelled, toppled over, pipe hittin’ the ground.

I snatched it up and ran.

Feet slappin’ against the pavement, breath ragged, guilt sittin’ heavy in my chest.

I ain’t even look back. I needed that pipe..Fuck