The Price ࿊f Peace

☮️: 041

Somewhere in Oakland

The ride home from Syara's apartment was... eventful.

The events of the night replayed in Camarro's head over, and over, and over again. He'd dipped out less than 20 minutes after hearing Mir's story.

Camarro was a man before he was anything. And he could admit he was wrong. He should've been there. Kicked out or not. He should've been there.

By the time he was 19, he and his mother had slightly made amends... well, more like his mother refused to stop spreading misinformation to their family to make Camarro seem like he was wrong, essentially making it harder for him to get a place to stay, unless he came to her and apologized.

For what? Camarro had no clue. He made something up, hoping it'd stick, and it did. At 19, he was couch surfing, saving to get his own spot and get both him and Elijah out of there.

He was taking hella shifts at a dead end fast food job, and selling drugs on the side, trying to get his paper straight, and as if that wasn't enough, he'd just found out he had a baby on the way.

His little brother was causing hell in Folsom county, and his connect that Camarro had watching over Elijah was getting out, so he no longer had a way to look out for him in there.

Too much was happening for Camarro to take care of by himself, but he had no one to help him. As always, he'd just have to figure it out.

He was left with no choice but to move back in with his mother until he could stack his bread right to get his own, but moving back in meant dealing with the same shit he was so lucky to escape in the first place.

The constant nagging, and guilt tripping. Camarro hated it.

When Camarro was young—really young—his Papí was still around, and he used to... he used to beat his mother so badly that she'd scream and yell bloody murder.

Camarro used to be so terrified that he'd hide in his closet, and cover his ears until the screaming, and banging, and punching stopped.

He was only four years old, and there was nothing he could do. But, every time his mother would see him, in the reflection of the mirror, hiding in the doorway of the bathroom while she cleaned the blood from her face, she'd give him this look. One he couldn't quite place until he was much older.

When Elijah was born, Camarro had just turned 6 years old. He was a big boy, then, and that meant he had to take care of his brother. That's what his Papí told him, and he was terrified of his Papí, but he already loved his new brother.

His mother didn't want him. Elijah, that was. She just didn't want him. When he'd cry, like babies did, she'd scowl down at him, and just watch him cry until Camarro would come get him from his cardboard crib, and figure out what was wrong with him.

She'd watch Camarro take care of him with that same look on her face.

And when Papí came home, and beat her, again, Camarro ran past the gruesome scene to get his baby brother from his box and carry him into the closet with him, hiding him behind his own trembling little body.

His makeshift crib was kicked harshly into the wall less than 5 minutes later, and Camarro couldn't help but think about what could have happened had he been too scared to leave his hiding place to go get him.