by Ws Greer
“You saved a girl?” Nix replies, furrowing his brow, and I can feel his blue eyes peering into the side of my face.
“Oh Nix, I didn’t know you could tell jokes. You know I didn’t do it for her. I just didn’t like what I was watching, so I changed the channel to something that made me feel better.”
Nix cracks the slightest smile when I look at him, then turns his attention back to the road.
“Interesting. Well, I wish I could’ve been there. I could really use some exercise to get out all the rage I’m feeling. Moe was drunk again last night.”
“When is Moe not drunk?”
“Touché. But he started in on my mom again. He hit her, and she did nothing to fight back as usual, and when I tried to pull him off of her, he gave me his full attention. Mom didn’t do anything then either. I think the worst part is knowing that I could beat the hell out of him if I wanted to. But I don’t. I just let him do it, and that makes me just as weak as my mom.”
I let out an exhale. Not many people know what it’s like to live inside a house made of nightmares. Every day is filled with everything you hate. For me, it’s my mother getting high right in front of me, or it’s one of her dealers or fellow junkies coming in to screw her brains out while she’s high. When I was little, it was being sold to dealers for scores of heroin, and then watching my mother have sex with the dealers just to get me back. It was her forcing me to lose my virginity when I was ten to another junkie’s daughter who was nine, as the two of them watched and got high. It was being beaten by my father before he was killed in a drive-by, and then being abused by my mother’s boyfriends and dealers later. I do not fear death, because my life is hell already. What do I have to fear? No, I fear nothing. But when you’ve been through what I’ve been through, you know that everything and everybody better fear you, because the level of rage I feel inside—you don’t want that kind of hate focused on you.
For Nix, his personal horror comes in the form of his parents, but for different reasons. His father beats him and his mother, but Nix hates his mother, Justine, because she doesn’t do anything to stop Moe. She lets it all happen. She watches when Moe beats up on Nix, crying in the corner of their living room. She won’t leave him either. She’s the woman you read about who stays in an abusive relationship until the abuse turns into murder. It’ll happen. Just give it time. The only thing that could prevent it is if Nix kills Moe before then. Only time will tell, but I know it every time I talk to Nix about this—somebody in that house is going to die. I wonder who it will be.
I turn to Nix and put my hand on his burly shoulder.
“Listen to me, Nix,” I say, looking straight into his blue eyes that match mine. “I don’t believe in friendship, but you and I have a kinship—a bond that’s not to be broken. I don’t like what you tell me about Moe. It’s a knife in my gut, and I want you to know that if ever you’re ready, we can pull it out together.”
Nix holds eye contact with me—he’s the only person who would ever do that. He knows what I’m talking about, and I can see the wheels in his head spinning around like tires on the car that just drove by.
“Not yet,” he says after some thought, which makes me a little sad. “I have to convince my mom that she’ll be okay without him. Once I do that, we’ll talk.”
“I look forward to that day,” I tell him with a smile.
“Me too,” he replies. “I gotta go. I’ll hit you up tomorrow.”
Nix gets up, dusts off his extra-long shorts, and walks down the steps without looking back, on his way back to his personal hell. With him gone, it’s time for me to go back into mine, so I get up, dust off my stolen clothes, and walk inside.
My living room is dark and filthy as always—beer bottles, needles, and three-day old food on the glass coffee table in the middle of the room, sitting next to spoons that weren’t used to eat anything. The tan couch only fits two people and rests in front of the coffee table at just the right distance to be able to grab one of those spoons with minimal effort, and the vomit-green recliner in the corner doesn’t actually recline. In fact, if you tried to recline in it, I’m sure it’d just fall apart right underneath you. The TV in the room is a whopping twenty-seven inches and has the clarity of muddy water when it’s being used. Drawers in the kitchen are pulled open like someone was looking for something, but when you’re mother is a junkie, you don’t know if it was her or one of her dealers looking for money to steal from her. I ignore all of this and start for my room in the basement, but before I can get too far, I hear a voice come from the corner where the recliner rests.
“You’re Solomon, right?” the voice says from behind me. I turn around to find a black guy sitting in the recliner with his elbows on his knees. I hadn’t even noticed he was there when I walked in, but he’s all I can see now—everything else in the house has disappeared. He’s about five-ten—roughly four inches shorter than me—with a decent build, wearing a baggy gray sweat suit and a long silver chain around his neck. He has long braids and a goatee under his chin—a pretty boy trying his best to be a gangster. I’m sure he has lots of time to do pushups and lift heavy stuff while his little minions do his dirty work, selling his product on the streets of Philly.
I don’t know his name, and I don’t need to. Just looking at him, I see all I need to know. He’s a thug who probably just got done banging my mother, who’s laying in her room with the door cracked behind me. Mr. No-Name was here while I was away, doing whatever to Whitney, but now that I’m back, he has been uninvited. He just doesn’t know it yet, and I smile at the thought of giving him is un-invitation.
“What’s so funny?” Mr. No-Name asks—maybe I don’t want to call him Mr. No-Name. I think Mr. Uninvited is better. Mr. Uninvited asks his question as he gets up from the recliner and walks over to me. “What’s wrong, man, you deaf or something? I asked you what your name is, and I asked what’s so funny. Did you hear me?”
“Oh I heard you fine,” I reply, still smiling.
“Yo, what’s wrong with you, son?” Mr. Uninvited asks, miffed by my beautiful smile. “What are you smiling like that for? Trying to creep my out or something. I ain’t afraid of stuff like that, kid. You know who I am? I’ve seen way scarier dudes than you. What are you, sixteen, seventeen years old? You ain’t been through enough in your life to be scary to me, yo.”
“Ain’t been through enough,” I repeat him, mocking him as I turn my neck to the side to stretch it out for what’s to come. “And let me guess, Mr. Uninvited, you’ve been through the worst the world has to offer, haven’t you?”
“The hell? Mr. Uninvited? What the hell are you talking about? You know, I’ve heard a little about you, actually. I’ve heard that you were some weirdo, walking the streets, robbing people, and trying to be a tough guy. Yeah, I’ve heard some stuff about you, Solomon, but now that I’m here, I know it can’t be true. You don’t look so tough to me. You might have a few screws loose, but you’re harmless. Just a little screwy in the head because your mother’s a junkie prostitute who I’m sure has done some pretty messed up stuff to you. That don’t make you scary though. You’re a little sissy, I bet. Am I right?”
I feel the rage boiling in my stomach like lava inside a volcano getting ready to erupt. I’m getting hotter and hotter, but I smile at my guest. He’s in my world, my house, and we’ll play by my rules. It’s much more fun this way. It’s my game.
“Well, if I’m such a sissy, why don’t you show me what a real gangster is supposed to be like? Come on, tough guy. What do you say we go a few rounds right here in the living room? Teach me a lesson.”
“Wow, you’ve got balls kid,” he says, nodding his head with a grin on his bearded face. “But you keep talking, I might have to put my foot in your ass just to show you how soft you really are. Lucky for you, I’m tired from banging your mom, so I’m just gonna chill.”
Oh that’s it. I have no more straws left, no more patience, no more will power to keep it inside. I hate my mother with
a furious passion, but she’s still my mother. My mother. I close my eyes as a smile forms on my lips.
“There you go smiling again. Go to your little room in the basement before you piss me off with that stupid grin,” Mr. About-To-Be-Taught-A-Lesson says, as he glares at me. A true tough guy, talking trash to a seventeen year-old.
“Let’s play a game,” I say. “First person to bleed has to admit they’re a bitch and get out of the house. Permanently. You game?”
“Listen kid, I’m just about out of patience with you. I’m not gonna tell you again.”
I raise my arms like I’m asking him for a hug.
“You’re not scared of little ole’ me are you? I’m just a little sissy, remember? So if I’m a sissy, and you’re afraid of me, then what does that make you?”
I can see that Mr. Uninvited is a little hesitant to step any closer to me, but he’s a man of pride, and my taunts get to him. Of course they do. He’s just like every other drug dealer that Whitney has brought into this house. Arrogant, egotistical, selfish, prideful, rude, disrespectful pieces of human shit who don’t deserve affection or love from anyone. I’ve spent my life dealing with these people, and now, at the age of seventeen, I’m maxed out when it comes to patience. I loathe drug dealers, and anytime I have to deal with one, they will feel that hatred full force.
“Alright, you know what? To hell with this,” he says as he steps towards me and tries to push me, but I side-step and punch him in the jaw. My second person of the day. Happy birthday, Solomon King!
Mr. Uninvited stumbles and hits the wall next to him. As he tries to regain his balance, I reach into my pocket and pull out the box cutter I always keep in my left pocket for moments just like this. I slam the fake gangster against the wall and put the razor blade on his cheek, letting it rest there ever-so-gently.
“Whoa, what the hell, man?” he calls out, putting his hands in the air like he’s under arrest.
I take a few seconds to look him in his brown eyes and smile again. In that short moment, his confidence leaks out into a puddle on the floor. He’s terrified as he looks me in the eye, then looks up at the ceiling, afraid to maintain eye contact with me. Like I said, Nix is the only one who isn’t afraid to keep eye contact with me. I wonder what it is about me that keeps people from looking me the eye.
“Sshhhhh,” I whisper. “You asked me earlier if I was Solomon. Now you know that I am. Don’t you find it interesting that you’ve heard of me, but I’ve never heard of you? Hhmm. Seems to me that you’re a nobody, and I’m already a legend at only seventeen years old. I don’t even know your name. You may want to remember that the next time you think of me. I am Solomon King, and you are nobody. But I do want to know something about you, Mr. Nobody. Do you bleed? I bet you don’t. Tough guy like you? No way. Well let’s see.”
Just as I finish my last word, I jam the razor into the drug dealer’s cheek so far that I can see half of the blade inside of his mouth when he opens it to scream in agony. I let him wail for a second, before jamming my hand over his mouth to silence him.
“Whoops! Guess I was wrong. You do bleed! Look at that! Now keep quiet! I thought you were some sort of tough gangster, but here you are screaming like—what was that you called me? A sissy? How ironic. Now, let’s review the rules of our game. The rule was whoever bled first had to admit they’re a bitch and leave the house permanently. So let’s see it.” I yank the blade out of the fake gangster’s cheek and look at the bloody razor. “Well, I may be a little crazy, a few screws loose, but I’m sure this blood isn’t mine. So, per the rules we agreed upon, you have something to do, don’t you?”
With my hand still over his mouth, Mr. Nobody nods his head as blood streams out of the wound in his cheek and runs down his face, dripping onto his sweat suit.
I smile from ear to ear. “Well?” I say, slowing raising my hand so he can speak.
He takes a second to breathe heavily before finally following the rules.
“I’m a bitch,” he says with shame and embarrassment coating his words.
“Yes. Yes you are,” I agree with my own head nod. “It’s good that you can admit it. It’s cute, really, that someone like you, who thinks he can try to punk a seventeen-year-old, can admit that he’s actually just a bitch with a brand new hole in his cheek. And now you’ll never forget the day you met Solomon King. That has put a warm smile on my face. See?” I smile an exaggerated smile, and Mr. Nobody recoils in fear. “Now follow the next step of the rules and get out of my house, before I use this razor to check to see if there’s blood in your throat.”
Without another word, Mr. Nobody starts towards the door, walking backwards like I might attack him if he turns his back to me. When his butt hits the door, he turns around and darts out, sprinting down the street.
I wipe the blood from my box cutter on my pants and walk down the hall leading to my mother’s room, before stopping just short and taking a right turn, opening my door and descending the stairs to the basement—yes, my room really is in the basement. I drop down onto my twin-sized bed after pulling the metal cord at the bottom of the steps to turn on the light, and even with the bulb doing its best to light up the space, the basement is still dank and dark. The corners of the room are coated with shadows that would give a toddler nightmares for sure, and the pipes running up through the ceiling to supply water and whatever else to everything upstairs are a bit of an eye sore, but nonetheless, this is my sanctuary. When I need to get away from Whitney and all of her mess, I can retreat down here and block it all out. There are no posters on the wall, and the dresser and metal wall locker I use as a closet are old and hanging on for dear life, but it’s still my stuff. A black foot locker rests next to the dresser, and another gigantic, twenty-seven-inch TV sits on top of the cardboard box that it came in. It’s a real pile of garbage, but it’s my garbage, and it’s not to be disrespected.
I toss my gun and box cutter on the floor next to the bed and make myself comfortable. Staring up at the cracking ceiling, I think about how my seventeenth birthday shaped up. It was pretty good, actually—beat the hell out of some deserving assholes, played some arcade games with that chubby kid’s money, gave some drug dealer’s cheek a peep hole, and saw someone who intrigued me.
For a reason I don’t think about, an image of the girl from Aaron’s pops into my head. I don’t know who she was or what her name was, but there was something about her that stands out amongst all the rest of the drama of my day. She obviously wasn’t from around here, but she was here, taking on two dudes all by herself. I’ve never seen a girl do anything like that, and I wonder who she was and if I’ll ever see her again. After everything that happened today, it’s interesting that she’s the thing I think about as I doze off.
WHEN LIFE IS quiet, calm, and serene for no reason, you know something bad is coming. The calm before the storm, they call it. That’s what I feel when I walk up the stairs and go into the kitchen this morning.
The past few days have been quiet enough to hear the voices in my head louder than ever—I’m just kidding, but not really—and I haven’t heard a peep from Whitney. She’s been cooped up in her room like it’s her prison, getting high I’m sure, but there’s something about this time that feels different. I know she’s not dead, because I’ve heard her moving around in there. I heard the familiar sound of her limp body falling onto the bed yesterday, which is always brought on after she injects herself with that poison. I haven’t seen her much though, and that makes me wonder. Today, the house has been silent, and I wonder what Whitney’s up to.
Nonetheless, I’m hungry.
I walk through the messy living room and enter the kitchen. It’s a small space like every other space in this house, but the grossness of it stands out above the rest. The white and light gray tiles on the walls are all coated with some grimy, brownish film that I’ve never been able to identify, though it’s been there as long as I can remember. The linoleum floor is coming up at the entrance to the kitchen, as
well as in the center, where a hole has been carved out from the foot traffic, and you can actually see the wood underneath. We’ve got dark gray countertops and white cabinetry, which does a great job of showing off how messy we’ve been our whole lives in this house by leaving streaks of brown, red, yellow, and who-knows-what-color everywhere. There’s no way our fridge isn’t the smallest one on the market, and the stove that never gets cooked on is like the fridge’s tiny twin brother. Just a little taste of heaven.
Leaning over the sink, I rinse out a bowl and grab a box of cereal. To my pleasant surprise, there’s milk in the fridge. I marvel at the sight of it and feel the excitement of not having to eat dry cereal again. The order of it all is typical: bowl, spoon, cereal, milk. I make it all happen in silence and walk into the living room to sit down in the broken recliner. The tiny TV is already on one of the ten channels we have, and I watch some Batman movie while I stuff my mouth with cereal and milk like it’s a celebration. But the silence is short-lived like I knew it would be.
As I swallow my first spoonful of food, my mother comes rushing into the house. I look up at her brown hair resting on top of her head like a bird’s nest, and see the scowl on her could-be-beautiful-if-she-wasn’t-a-junkie face. She has on a white tank top in this frigid weather, coupled with black sweatpants and sandals. She looks ridiculous but truly livid, even at only five-foot-four, and her blue eyes are as cold as the frost on the dying grass in the yard. The second she spots me sitting in the recliner, she walks over to me and knocks the bowl of cereal out of my hand and onto the multi-stained carpet.