Sade's Addiction

Born In The Hood

As the morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating the kitchen in a warm glow, the comfort of my grandmother's home wrapped around me like a soft blanket. The smell of apple pie mingled with the rich aroma of smothered turkey wings, making my stomach rumble in appreciation. I took a moment to savor the tranquility of this space before diving back into the chaos that my life had become.

"Are you sure you're alright, Sade?" my grandmother asked, concern etching lines across her face. I nodded, but I could see the skepticism in her eyes. She knew my heart wasn't just full of warmth and familial love; it was also a battleground where I fought against shadows of my past.

Between the walls of her quaint home filled with memories, I felt a sense of normalcy in the counterpoint to my life with Cortez - a world painted with loyalty and danger, where survival often overshadowed morality. I cherished my grandmother's kindness and grace; they were in stark contrast to the darkness and brutality I faced daily.

"I'm okay, grandmama. Just trying to figure things out, you know?" I replied, forcing a smile despite feeling a weight on my chest. "How's the garden? Did those roses bloom yet?"

She brightened at the change of subject. "Oh, you should see them! The red ones are simply stunning. I've been thinking of you when I go out there—how you used to help me plant them in the spring."

Memories flooded me, illuminating moments of joy in a childhood often overshadowed by absence and neglect. My grandmother's garden was a sanctuary, much like her love was—a safe haven amidst my conditional upbringing. We laughed and reminisced about those simple summers, moments that felt so distant now.

"So, are you still working at the bakery?" I asked, knowing that her modest job kept her busy and allowed her to keep her independence.

"Yes, but I've reduced my hours a bit. My knees aren't what they used to be," she said with a chuckle, settling back into her chair with a contented sigh. "But I can still make a mean pie, can't I?"

"You absolutely can!" I laughed, the sound lightening the heaviness in my heart. "You'll have to show me your secret recipe sometime."

Underneath the jovial conversation, though, lay an undercurrent of tension. I thought about the confrontation with Phil, about the churning emotions that came with fighting for survival. I brushed the thought aside. My grandmother needed my presence right then, not my worries.

As I pushed my plate away, satisfaction settled within me, but with it came a gnawing guilt about the violence that perpetually loomed just outside this bubble of comfort. My mind drifted back to the crime scene I had left behind that morning: Phil, sprawled out on the floor of my bathroom, lifeless and cold.

The memories of spraying blood across the tiles, the metallic scent still lingering in the air, surfaced unbidden. How had it come to this? How had I transformed from a girl eagerly listening to her grandmother's tales of old family lore into a figure embroiled in a lethal game, dictated by debts and vengeance?

"Are you sure you want to attend that family reunion next month?" my grandmother asked, interrupting my guilty reverie.

I hesitated. The thought of facing distant relatives brought back a wave of memories, each intertwined with the trauma of my upbringing. "I don't know, grandmama. Isn't it better to keep the past buried?"

"Sometimes being buried alive isn't any better than facing the music, Sade. You deserve to find closure. Maybe it's time to confront those feelings."

Her words cut through me, her wisdom enkindling an ember of fire buried under the ash of my resentment. Could I really find closure? Would confronting my mother—who had so ruthlessly left me behind—bring me peace or merely stir the ashes of anger into flames once again?