Intro- if you could call it that
"Hand's up, Alex. Come on, girl, don't fight us this time."
"Fuck you, Jenson. Like you'd really fight me." I snickered.
"I don't want to, but I-"
A hard kick in the gut, then a snap punch straight on the side of his stubbly chin, and out goes Jenson. Score one for Alex. Nice.
I peer down, hands on hips, a grim, wicked smile playing on my lips. "Ya shoulda called for backup, Jens. How many times do we gotta keep doin this?" I asked, getting agitated and bored real quick. "Come, on, answer me, goddammit!" I laughed at how funny I could be. Poor old Jenson couldn't say a thing to this fine-ass girl named Alex. Oh, well, back to businesses.
Turning my attention to the scarred ass pussy behind the counter, I casually lean over, blade shinning wickedly in my hand, and say,
"Ya shouldna done that, boy. Now gimme the cash behind I decide to play with your fingers with this here knife. Think you can do it without the cops? 'Cause I'm real hungry, real pissed, and really wanting to have some fun."
ME.
I hate me; I love me. My life's tough; I'm tougher. I'm a criminal; I'm a saint. I'm fourteen years old; and you really don't want to mess with me.
Name's Alex. I feel like we know each other. You, me- we're the same, right? On the inside is what I mean, but I really don't believe in all that shit. Oh, fore and very late warning: I swear. A lot. More than I should. But who out there gives a damn? (Don't answer that.)
Okay, maybe to get a little closer to you, here's some of my family's very colorful, very enlighten history.
Drugs. They're lovers; they're haters. They're so sweet and kind; they'll kill you the first chance they get.
In my family, you're one of these three: producers, dealers, and users.
Guess which category my 'rents fall under? (No answer needed= I don't want to hear it!)
My Uncle Damien is the producer- he finds all that shit. Crank, Glass, Blow, Crystal. Ask, and you shall receive with Damien. But asked him to bring, and oh-no-you-didn't! You can't cross lines, 'cause that's where Sam comes in. Sam's you're average dealer. No, not baggie clothes, dirty façade and cocky demeanor. Out on the street, like at Wal-Mart, he looks like every other Joe. But when night (or evening, or sometimes morning) falls around, and you're looking for a fix, bye-bye average Joe. Here comes the real Sam. The watchful, cautious drug-dealin' Sam. So then that leaves one category, and one pair of people to fall under it: users and my parents. My parents are user- heavy, if you ask me. All Blow, sometimes Glass and Coke, but never Crystal. (You're smart enough to know those easy ones, right? I sure hope so 'cause I'm not using any real names here. Hate my parents, but not enough to get them doin' 20 to life in county.) "That shit is messed up," my father would drawl, his high not yet reaching its point. And as if what you do isn't bad enough, dad. Yeah, I know, they're my parents. But after eight years of knowing, seeing, and believing the truth, the truth is tired of dealing with me. I lost that hope long ago to help them; my parents are goners. They'll OD soon enough, just like my grandfather, who OD on Crystal (Ha! Who's talkin' now?). But I never knew him, so the feeling is mutual…or it's just empty. How can you love someone when all you know about them is that they did drugs, and died because of it? Yeah, you can see my point.
So off subject, but there's a little history of moi.
Where should I begin? Hmmm…. How 'bout here? Where my life really turns to hell…