Memphis Streets 3: Revenge

Chapter 15- Alice

Niggas keep dropping like flies around me. That shit is just a fact of life. I'm long past the days of when I gave a fuck. Clearly, Arzell thought the dick was so good that he could spit out the side of his neck at me.

What the fuck? Comparing me to that no-good grimy bitch in the basement. He must've lost his fuckin' mind. I lean over Arzell's permanently shocked face and smirk. "You let the gray hairs fool you, didn't you?" When I realize that I'm actually waiting for an answer, I straighten up and head to the refrigerator for a cold one.

I need my morning buzz so I can think. After I pop the top, I take a couple of swigs to clear my mind up. It's fair to say that my situation out here has gotten worse. "You just had to pop off at the mouth, didn't you?" Disgusted, I march out of the kitchen and head back to the living room to turn on the television.

Terrell's face is on every channel. My ears perk when reporters are unable to confirm reports of someone escaping the Monte Carlo as it splashed down into the Mississippi. All I can do is hope. Why couldn't I pull my shit together to be a better mom to my children? Could'ves, should'ves, and would'ves fill my head while I drain the beer bottle.

The truth is that back in the day that crack rock had my ass shook. There was no better lover, mother, or friend in the whole world. When I had that shit in me, nothing and no one else mattered. Hell. It's been ages since I've had a taste and I'm still feining for that bullshit. Still, I should've never left Terrell with Maybelline.

The bitch was the reason for my downfall-is it no wonder that my older baby is now the Most Wanted Nigga in Memphis? My firstborn. I close my eyes and place a hand over my empty belly. But what about Mason? Guilt crashes through me, causing my eyes to burn and my throat to tighten. That whole Mason shit wasn't my fault. I didn't sell my baby for no crack rock. I mean, I know that I've done some pretty fucked up shit-but I wouldn't do that. I wouldn't. I feel a prick of doubt at the back of my head. The same one I've had since that horrible day . . .

In the early nineties my ass was a full-blown crackhead. Muthafuckas acted like I should've been ashamed of that shit or something, but I wasn't. Those fuckin' rocks were the only things in my life that made me feel good. One puff and it felt like every strand of hair on my body was having an orgasm. So what if I had to rob, blast, fuck, or blow muthafuckas in order to get down? The shit was worth it for no other reason than that I'd stop seeing Leroy's raping ass when I blazed up-stop feeling the pain of my legs being snapped open for the very first time and him telling me how much I wanted him before ramming into my dry pussy and ripping my young world apart.

No one understood that shit, least of all Maybelline. Sure, she would toss me a "sorry" every once in a while, but "sorry" didn't stop the nightmares. Frankly, she had a way of looking at me like I should be apologizing to her for the loss of one of her legs. Selfish bitch. Anyway, me and Jerome didn't work out. It was pretty much a rap when his ass left me to deliver my own baby in the middle of a check-cashing place that we had robbed. If the muthafuckin' security cameras had been working in that place, my ass would've been hauled into jail for the dead bitch Jerome took out behind the counter.

In the end, it didn't matter. It wasn't like Terrell was his kid no ways. That honor went to Supercop himself, Lieutenant Johnson. Sure, when the dust cleared, Jerome tried to holler at me again, but I wasn't tryna hear all that noise he was spitting. I was on patrol for a real nigga, doing real thangs. With Jerome out of the picture and Maybelline banning my ass from Nana's crib just because we stole a brick of coke from her, that meant my ass had to hustle hard. That shit was damn near impossible with a baby. Terrell was a good baby. He didn't cry, even on the days when I'd blaze and forget to feed him.