Waking up from the dream was always the worst part.

He rolled over onto his side and gripped the old, cardboard pillow by the cover and clenched for a moment, trying desperately, as always, to rid his eyes of her body collapsing, of the blood hugging the walls.

BANG

He sighed and sat straight up as the gunshot echoed around in his mind's ears. He stretched his arms and stood up off the floor where his mattress was.

Making his way up the wooden stairs, he tried the door.

And of course, it was locked.

He rammed his shoulder into it and knocked as loud as he could. "Gary! C'mon man, I gotta get to work!"

"I'm sloopin, kid."

"Well wake the fuck up or I'm breaking the damn door you fatass!"

"Nnfff"

Growling, Jake gave one last thrust and broke the cheap wooden door right in half. He emerged in the living room of his uncle's home. He grimaced at the stench of hard drugs, marijuana and alcohol. His uncle was passed out on the cheap grey couch that occupied the dirty room, bong and beer bottle in each arm, the old 1990's tv on the morning news.

Jake rolled his eyes and swiped his keys off the counter, heading out as fast as he could to be rid of that awful stench.

He unlocked the door to his old honda civic and slipped inside, putting the keys in the ignition. His eyes widened when the engine whined partially to life and then sputtered out.

He tried several more times before shouting in anger and punching the steering wheel. Hopping back out he glanced up and down the street. Most of the homes here were in ruin like his, paints chipping off the walls, chain link fences surrounding the front yard.

He grimaced again when he noticed two large man standing at the corner, eying him. He sighed and checked the time on his cheap wristwatch; he had only a half an hour to make it into the city.

Breaking into a sprint for the busstop, cursing his bad luck, he only hoped that this wasn't the last straw for his boss.

(LINE BREAK)

"Fired?" Jake asked in disbelief, bringing his hand up to his hair in shock.

"Jake, this is the fifth time this week. That means you were late all week, son."

Mr. Curtis leaned forward on his desk, suspenders threatening to burst because of his weight.

"Mr. Curtis, it was my car! I swear I ran as fast as I could!"

Curtis sighed and leaned back in his chair, rubbing the grey stubble on his chin. "Look, Jake, I like you a lot. But you're starting to cost me money. You love to far to be working all the way over here."

Jake hung his head and sighed. "I understand."

He made his way out of the old cigarette factory and fought to keep from screaming. This was the third job that summer.

He made his way out to the street and stared at the ground as he walked, hands in his pockets. Why was this so hard? Why was this happening?

"Why is it always so difficult for me?" He Hissed under his breathe, clenching his fists.

"Aye Crook! Wait up man!" Jake turned to see his best friend, Jerome approaching, white smile etched on his face like always.

"What's got ya down, man?" Jerome asked, grabbing Jake's hand and bringing him in for a quick embrace.

"Got fired. Again."

"Damn, man. Maybe you should work harder."

Jake just grinned as they walked the streets, dodging the small crowd of people Detroit had.

They walked and talked for almost an hour before they arrived at the poverty-ridden suburb they both lived in.

"Mom says you're always welcome with us. I don't know why you stay with your crazy ass uncle."

"I don't want to intrude."

Jerome turned to his friend meaningfully and raised his eyebrows. "You're family to us, man."

"I know, but I got my own life to live."

"Suit yourself."

They were walking past the local park when they heard the voice. The voice that would change there lives forever.

"Ayo, Jerome, how bout you hook a brotha up with that good shit?"

Jake's upper lip curled as the tall man headed for them. His body was muscular but his eyes gave him away, red, bloodshot, he was obviously craving the coke he was so fond of.

"Nah, Dean, I haven't had any since yesterday. Hit me up tomorrow."

Dean's eyes twitched and he stepped forward. "Man I know you got some, why ain't you selling? I got cash."

Jerome glanced at Jake before stepping forward. "Nigga, the fuck did I just say? I ain't got none!"

Dean stared at him for a moment before roaring like a gorilla and grabbing the smaller man by the collar. "Give me my fix before I beat ya ass, bitch!"

Jake glared and shoved Dean off his friend, producing a knife from his pocket with quick practice. "Fuck off, bitch."

Dean glanced at the small switchblade and laughed. "Alright, white boy, lets do this then!"

(Line Break)

"And you admit that you pulled a knife on Mr. Shawn?"

Jake bowed his head and glared at the wooden courthouse table in front of him. "Yes." He hissed.

"And then what?"

Jake looked beside him at Jerome, who was also cuffed to the table. "I tried to stab him."

"Did you succeed?"

"No."

"Continue."

Jerome spoke up this time. "I punched him and he fell onto the fire hydrant."

"And that is how Dean Shawn died?"

"Yes, your honor." Both boys said, glancing at each other again, panic evident in both eyes. This was it, they had been here before. The questions were through, now the moment of truth.

The judge nodded and turned to the jury. "Has the jury reached a verdict?"

"Yes, your honor." A tall blonde man stated, reading the paper in his hands. "We find the defendant Jerome Witman guilty of the crime of manslaughter. We also find the accused Jacob Brighton guilty of carrying a spring-loaded ballistic weapon over 4 inches without a permit to own such a weapon, and of the crime of aggravated assault and attempted intentional injury."

Both Jake and Jerome deflated, gaping. Jake heard his uncle snoaring in the stands behind him, and Jerome's mother let out a cry. He gritted his teeth and fought back the urge to commit another murder as the family of Dean clapped and cheered.

"I see. Well, Mr. Brighton, as this is not your first offense, and coupled with the adult nature of this crime, and your 16 and 8 months of age, I sentence you to 2 months in adult penitentiary."

Jake gaped. He was going to adult prison? How could that be legal?

"Furthermore, because of your history of aggressive nature, you will also be required to attend daily therapy sessions."

Jake frowned at that.. Therapy sessions?

"And for you, Mr. Witman, for the crime of manslaughter through reckless action and intent to harm, I sentence you to 18 months in adult penitentiary."

Jake gasped and looked at his wide eyed friend. "Your honor, please-"

The old judge hammered his gavel and glared daggers at both if the men. "The decision has been made. Go to jail and serve your debt to society. And become better men in the process. Court adjourned."

(Line Break)

"Hello, Mr. Brighton. My name is Marshal Fieder, Administrator of Scholarships and Acceptance at Hollywood Arts."

Jake glanced at his therapist of the past few weeks, Sandra, she grinned, wiping a blonde hair behind her ear, shooting him a thumbs up.

"What's up?" Jake cringed when he asked that, knowing he should have said a formal greeting.

The interview went fairly quickly. Jake explained that he was part of a young criminal rehabilitation program, and that with some financial aid, he could be a great addition to the musical talent of HA.

And that's why he was here standing at the gates of the most impressive school he had ever seen. Students swarmed around him thought the tall pillars of concrete, oblivious to how shocked he was.

This was it. He was going to realize his childhood dream here. He would fix his life here. He would find his fairy tale, like his mom always wanted.

But first he just had to find his locker.

A/n: thank you for reading, I know this prologue was relatively short, but I decided to start with some background. Future chapters will definitely flow better and be longer. Please review, I love those :)