The Tears I Shed For Him...

Chapter 17~Unknown POV

OK, so I usually don't make a different POV, and don't expect me to do it a lot. However, this is a very good exception and you'll see why in a bit.

Song=="G.F.A" By Blood On The Dancefloor 

Picture==Nahuel 

            The hassle of moving bodies tossed me around some as everyone hurried to get out the rather small exit the Gym had to offer. Just as I had enough, I let my body hardened and planted my feet well on the ground so my body would stop shuffling around like a ping-pong ball. Today’s pep rally went better than expected, a little too well but there was no time to ponder over the inevitable, right now I had to find Ian.

            There was a buzzing in the pocket of my shorts, and slowly I lowered my hand to scavenge my short’s pocket. The collar ID read RESTICTED. Flipping my cell phone open, I brought it to my ear as my free hand covered my other. The noise was unbearable, making the voice that emanated from the machine seem like a minuscule hum.

            “Yo,” I grunted loudly.

            “Is the pep rally over?” responded a gravely deep voice. I moved against the crowd as I searched for a place to sit.

            “Ian.” I avowed with a shake of my head. There were secluded rows of bleachers by the far end of the gym, not too far away. “I thought you were going to be here today. What happened?”

                        There was a pause, it stretched out longer than needed but then Ian’s growling voice returned; seemingly irritated, “Just answer the fuckin’ question! Is the rally done or not?”

            “Yes, it’s done” I snapped, growing irritated myself. Who the fuck did he think he was? I mean I get it he is the current leader for The Blood, but he wasn’t my boss. The only reason I was even making a deal with him was because I was sick of The Bull Dogs taking advantage of me. Yes, I wasn’t in The Blood gang, no I was a Bull Dog member, I have been for over three years now. Only Malik, The Bull Dog leader, had threatened to kill my family if I didn’t obey their commands. Well, they had something coming alright; no one threatened me or my family! Now, one would say that what I was about to do is usually classified as betrayal. As if I gave a shit what people thought? Life is a battle ground, and only those who have the urge to spend another day alive go to the extremes to win the war; no matter the consequences. Out here, we all are on our own; from the moment you step foot outside your house and decide to live your own life, you are practically screaming out your suicide to the Angel of Death—taunting him with every breath that your lungs squeezed out, just counting down to the last one. For those who have always been pampered and given all they ever desired, this might be like trying to walk through a field of burning coal in order to reach the pot of gold in the other end of the rainbow. Suicide.

            I’m not like them however; I was never given what I always wanted—hell! I was never given anything period. In my household, the one who brought in the cash was my mother, and that was all thanks to her late night trips to bars, selling her body for twenty dollars per session; and if you wanted something a little kinkier, you had to add in an additional five. Let’s just say Abe Lincoln was a familiar face when it was time to count up the bills. I knew all this because I had the privilege to watch her in action. One night the curiosity to know where she worked gnawed at the last section of my nerves and to be honest I couldn’t take it anymore. I shot out of bed and stealthily followed her as she walked to her ‘job’. She had her head low and chin tucked in on the lifted collar of her ankle length trench coat, I kept to the shadows of course, but when I first laid my eyes on that shabby low life bar crib I just couldn’t hold in my horror. I jumped out to stop my mother; I scolded her there in front of all those people. That’s when I noticed that her coat had been unbuttoned down the front. She wore a single strip over her breasts that appeared to be merely for decoration for it had little to no success in obscuring her bulging round flesh. My eyes traveled south and I gasped as I took in the laced black lingerie with matching fish-nets. Her shoes…yeah they were red hooker heals to put it bluntly. My sweet mother—the woman who would wake me up in the morning with gentle coos and baked my favorite my favorite Macadamia Nut Cookies—was now standing practically naked in front of a shabby looking bar, playing the role of an average prostitute. And God, was it an eye opener, I had only been twelve back then but it gave me the insight of what the real world was like. I staggered back, stunned, as she hastily tried to cover herself. I ran home soon after, not bothering to quire over the hard facts that displayed before my eyes. The next day, when she got home, I didn’t speak of what I saw the night before, and neither did she. The spoken words were of her smacking down a thick wad of cash on the table and demanding I count every bill. Our relationship changed after that, I didn’t speak with her, and she made no effort to mend the broken. That there is reality. Unlike the pesky little fairytale stories that children read in those picture books. The villain in the novel never has to be the step-mother or step-father. It doesn’t even have to be the crabby leader of the Mafia. We all are the antagonists, one way or another, the true story of reality never really had a protagonist, for if it did then suffering wouldn’t even be a popular vocabulary word.