Bellview
street was a place where most dreams died. It was a place where the
rich could ostracize the poor by living them in the ruined shacks and
poorly constructed tenements. It was a ghetto, a place where the good
died young and the evil died just as fast. It was a place with too
much pride and not enough hope.
There
were two groups that contested for Bellview – the Bulldogs and the
Drifters. You were born into one of these groups, it was as simple as
that. Either you were a Bulldog or a Drifter.
The
Bulldogs had the end of the street – a cul-de-sac of ancient ruins,
destroyed houses and crippled shacks. It was a rare event to see
someone on the streets without a gun. It was needed – the Drifters
came in and came out like that. One second you're checking your
phone, or drinking some soda, and the next second your face is in the
ground and your leaking red all over the concrete.
It
was at this cul-de-sac a boy was born. No one knew his name. It
didn't matter what his name was before though, because he was known
around as Trenton.
The
gang acted as birds teaching their children how to fly. You didn't go
on the streets unless you knew how to use a gun, and complete the
blood initiation. Then you were really in the gang.
Trenton
had an older brother who committed to the initiation a long time ago.
Everyone just called him Lamar, because that's who he was in the
ghetto. Lamar originally tried to take Trenton away from the gang,
teaching him what math and English he knew and playing what games
they had. But, like all the others, the gang caught up to Trenton.
That was what he wanted to be – a respected member of what he knew
of society.
It
was a stormy evening on Bellview. Lamar scrapped what money he had to
get a chicken bucket, and the two sat eating until Trenton looked up
at Lamar and began talking.
“Lamar,
how do I become a real nigga?”
Lamar
knew what he meant. Being a “real nigga” was the universal name
for a real homie, a senior member of the Bulldogs like Lamar. He knew
the day would come, he had prepared for it, but there was no turning
him back from what Trenton wanted to be.
“Aw,
shit. You are a real nigga, right?”
“No,
no I ain't. They say I gotta learn to whack to become a nigga.”
Trenton
was only eight. Ten was the average age of initiation, but eight was
not unheard of. It was
always considered that the sooner they were initiated, the better.
“So,
is that it? You wanna become a real nigga?”
“Yeah,
I wanna become a real nigga.”
“To
be a real nigga, you gotta be a real nigga. You a real nigga, bro?”
The
little boy got up on top of the table, and gave a superman pose,
puffing out his chest. “I am a real nigga.”
“Can't
here you, bro. You a real nigga?”
“I
AM a real nigga!” Trenton yelled. Lamar laughed at the boys
excitement.
“Alright,
my nigga. Come on now, its time for bed.”
The
next day Lamar brought Trenton to the gang house. There, Red, the
leader of the initiation and the oldest member of the Bulldogs with a
strong mohawk and an eyepatch inspected the boy. Trenton was
intimidated by him and the thick smell of alcohol from the man's
breath, but he didn't show it.
“Well,
fuck. I gotta say Lamar, you train these homies damn well, man.
Niggas gotta arm the size of Hulk, man!”
Red
tickled the underside of Trenton's arm which caused him to laugh and
fall on the ground. The old, hardened man didn't seem too threatening
anymore.
Finally,
the scarred man let the kid stand back up. “Aight son, before you
whack, you gotta learn how to whack, you understand me homie?”
“Yeah,
I gotya.”
The
rest of that week Trenton trained with his pistol. Every member had a
9mm and an AK, but they only got the AK after they completed the
initiation. And so the next and final step, of course, was the
initiation.
It
was a dark, rainy night. Trenton sat in the back of a pickup truck
with his brother and two other members of the gang. Trenton was
silent, holding the gun in his hand, sweating over its metal.
“So
nigga,” one of the gang members said to the other unnamed gangster,
“When the fuck we gonna find some fool to creep on?”
“Mothafucka,
I already told you fool. We'll find'em soon.”
The
crew waited for a few more minutes, when from around the corner a
white couple came out around the corner. A tall, light-brown haired
20-something guy in a stripped polo and a straight-haired blonde of
the same age. They were both laughing, having a good time.
“Damn,
these niggas came at the wrong fuckin' time in the wrong mother
fuckin' neighborhood.” Lamar noted.
Trenton
opened the door to the vehicle, but the driver stopped him. “Yo my
nigga, take some first.” In his hand he held what looked to Trenton
as a few green stickers.
“Yo,
fucka,” Lamar looked at the driver, concerned for Trenton, “you
fuckin' serious bro?”
“Yeah
man, I fuckin' serious. It makes it easier. Come on nigga, take a
lick.”
Trenton
took one and put on the tip of his tongue. At first he felt, dizzy
and woozy, but his senses came back in a swirl of metaphorical
fireworks and pink haze. Purple sky, orange grass.
He
exited the vehicle as the couple made their way near the next street.
He kept his gun close at his side, concealed – just as Red had
taught him.
By
the time the two made their way to the corner, Trenton caught up to
them. He couldn't tell what was human or not. It didn't matter.
With
a quick whip he took out the pistol and shouted, “Yo, fuckas!”
The couple turned around and instantly paled. The boy ran down the
street and the blonde followed – however she tripped on the
pavement and her face met clear concrete.
The
boy held the gun to her face. She turned to him with a look of
despair, of fear, of sadness. Tears streamed down her face, yet she
was as a deer in headlights. She knew her fate, she knew she made a
mistake. But that didn't matter to the boy. The world collapsed and
reconstructed and all he cared for was to hunt the deer.
He
pulled.
The
side of the girls scrapped off on dark asphalt. Gray turned red, as
blood seeped through the cracks of the concrete. The side of her
skull that blew off and her remaining skull was connected by a
shriveled worm of pink organ. Her face stood frozen, but her eyes
were pitch-white dead. The smooth yellow of her hair was soaked in
the liquid that seeped out of her throughout. Before she died, she
went into convulsion, slamming her feet into the sidewalk and
grabbing for the boy, desperately trying to say words that translated
only into spits of blood. It's not like what she would've said
would've meant anything, anyway.
But
Trenton didn't feel right. The vivid image wasn't what he imagined in
his dream. It was more
colorful, but not more clean. But that didn't matter.
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