​Chapter 7: Past Regrets Haunting

I move through the streets, feet draggin’, mind runnin’ in two different directions.

One side screamin’ about what just went down—the fact that I robbed an old junkie for his pipe like some desperate fiend.

Shame sittin’ in my gut like bad food, but it ain’t sittin’ alone. Right next to it? That rage.

The names I wrote down last night burn in my pocket.

Dante. Steve. Mike.

I ain’t lettin’ it slide. They made a mistake puttin’ me onto that shit. They think they own me now.

They dead wrong.

The closer I get to Dreanna’s spot, the more my mind starts switchin’ gears.

Ain’t seen my baby girl, Dominique, in damn near two months.

Every time I tried to come through, Dreanna hit me with some excuse. "I’m busy." "She sleep." "You ain't send no money, so why you worried?"

She always found a way to make me feel like I wasn’t enough.

But today? Today, I’m seein’ my kid.

When I reach her apartment complex, I clock the group of niggas standin’ outside. Hood-ass dudes, posted up, smokin’ and talkin’ loud.

I peep how they barely even look at me.

That tell me everything I need to know.

Ain't nobody worried about me. Not in this spot.

I clench my jaw, shake it off, and head up the steps.

Knock on the door.

Footsteps.

Door swing open.

And there stand Dreanna.

Half-naked.

Bra straps showin’, no panties, hair lookin’ like she just got fucked.

And right behind her?

A nigga standin’ in the hallway in his damn drawers, dick print damn near lookin’ like a missile.

I freeze.

Then, just like that—my whole mood flip.

​

I didnt  even think. It just come out.

"Bitch, you got another nigga in here while my two-year-old daughter sleepin’?!"

Dreanna roll her eyes, already tired of my shit.

"Joe, don’t start this—"

"Nah, fuck that!" I point past her. "Who the fuck is this nigga?"

The nigga in the hallway step forward, tryna act like he calm, but I see the shift in his stance.

"Yo, chill, bruh," dude say, hands up like he talkin’ to a wild animal.

Wrong move.

Before he can say another word, I swing.

CRACK.

Fist meet jaw, clean shot.

Dude stumble back, hittin’ the wall hard.

Dreanna scream, shovin’ me. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

I ain’t hearin’ it.

"You got this nigga up in here ‘round my daughter?! While I’m out here bustin’ my ass tryna survive?!"

She screamin’ back now, hands flyin’, tryna push me toward the door.

"Joe, wtf! This been stopped being yo pussy. Get the Fuck out my house clown nigga!"

I don’t even look at her.

My hands already in the other dude’s pants pocket, snatchin’ his wallet.

"Oh, you bold like that?" I mutter, flippin’ it open, pullin’ out a wad of cash.

I ain’t even count it.

Dreanna’s face turn dead serious.

Her voice drop low.

"You take that money, and you can't never come back here again You acting like a J."

I hesitate.

For half a second, I actually think about puttin’ it back.

But then I thought about the money I owed the Mexican, my next hit of rock, and said, fuck it.

And just like that, my face go cold.

I stuff the cash in my jeans.

Turn toward the door.

Then I see her.

My baby girl.

Standin’ in the doorway.

Tiny, barefoot, rubbing her sleepy little eyes.

She look confused. Scared.

Like she don’t recognize me.

And maybe she don’t.

Maybe she see the same thing I been startin’ to see in the mirror.

My stomach twist, my throat tighten up.

But I don’t say nothin’.

Ain’t even try to explain myself.

I just turn around and walk the fuck out.