Velocity: The Neon City

New Beginnings

Day one of my journal. For someone who thinks writing down your feelings is stupid, here I am. If by any chance anyone other than me is reading this, I'm sure you wouldn't want somebody's eyes all up in your personal stuff. Let that marinate in your conscience.

My name is Shawn Blakeman, and I was born in Tokyo, Japan. Dad was stationed there as a United States marine, moved to the US with my mom and my big brother when I was about five. Being raised by a single mom who was an alcoholic, I had a pretty shitty childhood. Don't get me wrong, she tried her best, but sometimes even her best still wasn't enough.

She couldn't hold down a job, so me and my brother had to move all over the place with her to find one. It kept happening until recently, on my 17th birthday, she got a job in Los Santos, the Neon City. So we moved here, Kelly Park, Southside, LRS.

All I knew about Los Santos was that is was a major crime hub, notorious for mafia and gang violence. As a kid, I remember watching cartoons on tv, and I can't even count the number of times the news cut the broadcast with video footage of cop car chases, hostage situations, and police manhunt operations.

Sure mom, let's just head straight to one of the most crime ridden states in the country where you can catch a bullet while waiting on the bus. As usual, I had no say in these things, and had to just go wherever the wind took me.

If you're still going to spy on my journal, then buckle up, and let me take you back to the beginning of my journey into the world of crime, cause it's gonna be a wild ride.

After driving for hours on a sore ass, the car finally stopped. I felt the jerk of the sudden halt, so I opened my eyes and looked around. After the flare of the sunlight faded, I realized I was in some fancy looking suburb.

I got out, and infront me stood a house, not bad, not good, but it was better than me the last one. The stripped off paint and the broken window on the front porch was a welcoming sight, compared to the other hazardous and uncomfortable places I've been in.

Still though, when I looked at the other houses, I couldn't help but feel we got the most hideous house on the block. As if we stood out like a sore thumb among the other neighbors and their stylish homes. And I could see those nosey eyes of our new neighbors peeking through the blinds of the houses across from us.

Once again, life just hit the reset button and I started out anew.

"Shawn! C'mon! Get the stuff from out the trunk!"

"Yeah mom, I'm on it!"

I heard the Kershhk! of a bear bottle cracking open while I went to pick up the boxes with our stuff. This was the seventh bottle of bear she's had since morning, but I just shoved my head down in the truck to get my stuff ignoring it.

Last time I tried to warn her about her excessive drinking, she told me she was a grown woman and could do whatever she wanted to, and that I had no business telling her what to do. Ever since then I just kept my mouth shut.

While searching for my stuff in the truck, I got hit with a collection of memories when I opened the box.

My old guitar pick that was worn down at the point reminded me of my dad, especially the times he spent teaching me to play the guitar. Then I saw my old ragged journal that I had in pre school. The cover was ripped off and the pages were mildewed from some apple juice that spilled on it years ago, I could barely make out a word as I tried to read it. I did not even remember what I wrote in it back then, but it didn't matter anyways.

At the side of the box, I had an old soccer ball signed by Cristiano Ronaldo himself when I won an all expenses paid trip to watch the 2013 Champions League final, as reward for winning a local soccer competition that year. What can I say. Basketball, baseball, and touch football never really cut it for me growing up. Or maybe I just sucked at them.