The Pain Subsides, But The Scars Remain. I Remember Shit Like It Was Yesterday, Straight On A Tuesday. Flames Surrounding Our Building, Screaming And Shootings Could Only Be Heard. Little Infant Was Only Seven Playing Outdoors With His Football. Witnessing Everything From The Outside, He Sensed There Was A Homicide. His Parents Was In There, He Could Only Shed A Tear. Feeling Speechless & Sadness, He Knew He'd Be An Orphan.
- 𝒥uan Collins
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𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐈 | VOLUME ONE. ❝ N.Y STATE OF MIND ❞ [ HARLEM, NY ]
1997. Standing around the corner, which served as the three males' preferred location to hang out, relax, or even sell narcotics, they were smoking a blunt that was being passed. The youngsters started sprinting away without hesitation as they could see blue and red lights flashing back and forth from a distance, as the police sirens grew louder and louder.
Jumping over fences with their hoodies over their heads like straight bandits who had been creeping all night. It was obvious as day that the neighbours had complained and had chosen to contact the police; it wasn't the first time either, but the boys obviously did not give a single fucks. The boys knew exactly how to get away from the police because they had done it before, so it was nothing new to them. They simply had to follow the shortcut path, which is what the boys did— Juan's book unintentionally slid out of his fingers and fell to the ground as they were aiming for the shortcut path. "Fuck." He muttered, turning to face it as he could already hear the approaching sirens.
His mother gave him that book as her last gift just before she died, and that is where he recorded everything about his life. Juan always had a good mind and could write well. He used to freestyle his own lyrics and as a result, he dreamed of becoming a lyrical poet like Nas. However, as he got older, the dream gradually faded away. He had potential, as his mother could tell from the way he spoke. He took that book by heart. Not only was it too personal for anybody else than him to read, he knew he had to go back and get it. After all, it was his mother's last present to him.
"Nigga, hurry the fuck up!" As Juan hastily returned to get his book and joined Malik and Roscoe back on the run, Malik yelled back at him. Although it was a risky move, he would stop at nothing to prevent anyone from opening the book. Even his closest friends were unable to open that book. It was stuck to him like glue. He thought he was penning down too much intimate and emotional information for another person to read; it felt too open and secretive.
The boys reached the shortcut and could hear the sirens diminishing, but they kept running and couldn't stand until they reached their neighbourhood. A neighbourhood they share and grew up in— Juan resides with his maternal grandparents, followed by Roscoe, who lives with his uncle and auntie down the streets, & Malik, who lives with his parents and siblings two doors away from Juan.
