You twirled your pocket knife in your experienced hand. You tenaciously held the wicked knife by my throat. I flinched. You plunged the knife harder against my pale skin. I felt the tingling of my skin and the blood dropping down my white shirt, now staining it blood red. You smirked at me with a murderous glint in your olive green eyes. I instantly understood why you came to the cafe today, it was all part of your foolproof, flawless plan. It was all for me. It was now I concluded the reason you were nervous. Tears escaped my dull eyes, but your fierce gaze didn't dare soften. You resolutely pushed the against my throat harder. I was losing consciousness. - - -

Your typical story...with a twist.

It was the summer of '93, and the weather was almost hotter than the location. But then again, what could be hotter than hell? The Ninth! Some would assume that the steam which rose from the broken sidewalks in front of the brick apartment building justified the neighbor hood's nickname, the Ninth Circle of Hell. The heat wave however, had nothing to do with why people associated Messalina projects with Dante's Inferno. No, that honor went to the infestation of dealers, crack heads, boosters, and hoes. Dope boys handled their business like it was legal, and everyone learned to look the other way. If they didn't learn, then they never got the chance to look again. Life in the ninth operated by the code of the wild, predators ate and prey got eaten. The drug dealers sat on the top of chain. Boosters, strippers and hoes fell somewhere in the middle, while the crack heads and the civilians clung to the last wrung. Everyone knew their assigned roles and no one ever deviated from the script. Cleopatra James, an unremarkable thirteen year old girl, understood better than anyone, her dictated place in the procession. But that didn't mean she accepted the role she'd been given to play.