BE FREE

“Go and make little Bryant a bottle, you sorry ass woman! Damn! I mean ever since we had his little ass, you act like you can’t do shit  no more! I didn’t even want his little ass, and now you don’t even take care of the little bastard half of the time. I’m saying, you’re his mother. All that you ever use to talk about, was us having a baby, and now that he is here, look at your sorry ass! I knew that this shit was going to happen! It’s bad enough that I have all these damn bills that I have to pay! He’s just another damn mouth that I have to feed! I don’t need this shit! It was already hard enough when it was just you and me,” said Donald as he continued arguing with my mother. I had been sitting down in the corner, playing with some of my action figures, and watching my father display an utter disrespect for the one woman that had given life to me. It seemed like they were always fighting, and I often felt like it was all because of me. It almost seemed as if my father didn’t want me. Our life was pretty hard. In my young eyes, I had no idea of what the world was all about. I mean my father couldn’t find a job, and the times when he did have one, he only worked for short periods of time, until something made him quit, or he got fired. He usually earned cash illegally, through gambling, or stealing, or selling dope. He was always looking for the fast money, and the fast life. My parents had still been in the kitchen, arguing, when suddenly, a loud bang at the door, drew everyone’s attention to it. I felt a funny feeling inside the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know exactly why, but something felt like it wasn’t right. I later learned that when this feeling came, it was always for some reason, either good or bad. It was some type of human warning signal, that a person was able to feel, in their body, in order that they could be warned for something that was about to happen to them in the future. The knocking at the door gradually got louder, and louder, until it became unbearable. I remember my dad looking at my mom, and asking her, if she was expecting anyone. My mother was a somewhat quiet person, who seldom had the courage to even speak her mind. I believe this was due to the many years of physical, and mental abuse, that my dad had put her through. Over the course of their relationship, I guess it had taken it’s toll on her. I sometime thought of her as a human puppet, that my father controlled, as a cruel puppet master would, to entertain his own pleasures, and desires. My mother frantically responded to him with a quick shake of her head, indicating that she was not aware of anyone that was suppose to be coming to the house that day. During the same time that the loud knocking on the door was going on, I remember hearing a voice, that came from the other side of the door. A deep, masculine, voice, that spoke with a coldness that almost sounded as if it wasn’t human. The words that were spoken were a little bit muffled, due to all the other noise, but they were still audible enough for me to understand. To be honest, they were just as clear to me as if the evil figure that was on the other side of the door had spoken them directly into my ear. “Hey Donald, you piece of shit! I know your in there, so open the door you low down coward,” the guy behind the door screamed, as he continued to pound on the door. My dad started scrambling around our small, three bedroom apartment, looking for somewhere to hide from this mysterious man, that had just a few seconds earlier, spoke directly to him through the door. It seemed that whatever, or whoever he had been wanting to hide from, had finally trapped him. Almost like a great lion, that was hunting its prey, and had managed to block it into a area that there was no escaping from. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, the door was kicked open from the outside. I remember looking up in the midst of all of the commotion, and that’s when I saw them. It was the evil bearers of death, and they had come to our home, with the shadow of death in their very presence. They were the grim reapers employee’s, and their paychecks were the souls of every man, or woman, that they had killed in cold blood. Four Italian men, dressed in black suites, and leather down coats. For some strange reason, I remember looking the long haired man in the eyes. Now keep in mind, at this time, I was only six years old. Well, in the whole scheme of things, I had possessed the same innocence that any child my age had, but the cold, mean streets of Chicago, were slowly transforming me into something else. They were changing me to something far from a child, far from anything good ,or kind. As I sat there looking at this whole situation, I tried my hardest to think about what I should do. I don’t know exactly why, but as I looked at the gun man with the long hair, something about that son of a bitch’s face scared me. His eyes were cold as ice, and all of the gunmen wreaked of whiskey, and Cuban cigars. I recognized their faces, even though I had never seen them before, I still knew there faces. Those cold, blood shot eyes. The evilness that I heard in their voices.  Through the gunmen, I got my first look at the face of death itself. It made it’s first appearance in my life, through hearts of these men. I‘m going to keep it real, even though I was young, I had a wisdom that even back then, far surpassed my years on the earth. I was what you would call an old soul. Now, I knew my father pretty well. He was a good man, but like every man, he had a bad side also. He often blew his paychecks at the gambling boat, before he even came home to my mother. Most of the time, when he did have money, he wouldn’t give her a penny. He also had a thing for beauty. I’m talking about nice cars,  jewelry, and women. I guess that’s why, even though he was already married to my mom, he still chased other women. Well, in spite of all those things, he still was my dad, and I loved him all the same. Now that I was facing this situation, I guess that it put things into perspective. Even though I didn’t truly know exactly what all this was about, I knew that he needed me to help him. The fact that these men had come to our apartment, I knew that my dad had really fouled up this time. I remember seeing the long haired gunman, calling out for my dad to come over to him. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there, frozen, as my whole body trembled with fear. It was the type of fear that took total control over me, and left me feeling helpless and vulnerable. I knew what was coming next. It was like some kind of bad dream, that I was forced to be a part of. It was a vision that I would be forced to relive over and over again in my head. My poor mother had dropped to her knees, and started sobbing uncontrollably. My dad slowly walked toward the gunman. The words that long haired gunman spoke are still with me to this day. I guess that they are stuck in my very being for somewhere. Somehow, they are a part of this cruel existence, that was my life. “Hey you piece of shit, where the fuck is my money?” he said in a deep voice, speaking directly to my father. The next thing I remember was seeing him reach in his trench coat, and pull out a black shotgun.