“Good-bye my Friends”

It’s one a.m. in the morning and even though it’s August, I can feel the chill of Autumn coming on. The night sky is clear and beautiful as is the artitecture of the buildings above me. But at street level, it’s a different story. This is Washington Heights and I’m walking through Saint Nicholas Avenue and the streets are dirty with excessive litter. It makes me sad.

On the opposite end of this block is 184th street and a Dominican man with skin the color of caramel walks my way. He is young and judging by his walk, he is trouble. He has a gun concealed on his person somewhere. Eventhough I can’t see it, I know it. I don’t know how I know. I just do.

Even though the street is big enough for many people, we walk towards each other’s path. I know I should walk out of the way to avoid problems but my ego says “fuck that!” The man and I are close enough so that we can see each other’s faces. He has souless, black, shiny eyes. We make eye contact and are both aware that our shoulders are going to collide. I brace myself for the impact as I knock past him, pushing him back with ease. My ego is momentarily satisfied.

“Que Vina, loco?” I hear him say to me. I turn and the man looks pissed.

“You got beef, homeboy?” He asks with a thick accent. I watch him reach behind his waist. My heart skips a beat and then races. He pulls out a shiny piece of black metal. “I knew it.” I tell myself regretfully. I stare at the gun. It’s small. I can’t tell if it’s a 22 or a 25 calibre.

“What’s up now?” The Dominican asks with the knowledge that he holds my life in his hands.

“Nothing’s up.” I tell him.

“That’s what I thought, bitch!” I watch him squeeze the trigger. The bullet is so fast that I don’t feel it enter my stomach. It takes seconds for me to feel heat and then the bullet ripping through my intestines. I see sparks of white light and feel unbearable pain. I scream as the bullet richochets inside of my person, smashing through bones and through some of my vital organs. I feel light headed. I can’t believe this is happening. Please let me wake up from a bad dream, but I don’t wake. My legs weaken and my knees buckle. I falls backwards on to the hard concrete. I know that I am going to die. I close my eyes as I scream uncontrollably in agony.

I see myself as a three year old on my tricycle. I see Elsie and Ernie smiling at me with loving eyes. I see Alfred laughing. I see Patricia teaching me to dance the hustle in the living room. I see my Titi Olga smiling at me. I see Sandra and I see Eddie and I drawing graffiti in the back of 6th grade Spanish class. I see John Bonnila and I skateboarding down Snake hill. I see myself smoking blunts with Nel-One and Eps in the back of 157th train station. I see Juice laughing at one of my stories. I see Seen smirking. I see Poke drawing in my blackbook. I see the first time I met West at 145th street with Zear and Zame. I see Laura and I facing eachother in bed during the summer of 1988. I see Blust and Brue dee-jaying. I see Dash telling me, “Yo beee, you’re bugging!” I see Odette loving me unconditionally. I see my mother smiling. As well as my sisters Rosie and Stephanie. I see Victor, Joyce, Nikki, Arthur and I dancing at Sway. I see Kristin Kelly smiling at me, calling me honey. I see Andy and Jon at the shop.

I open my eyes. I miss all these people so much already. I love them so much. Do they know that?  I cry from both pain and the sadness of my death.

My killer is looking down at me, laughing at me. He calls me a bitch ass motherfucker. And even though my throat and nose is flooded with blood, I manage to get in my last words.

“That’s why your mother sucked my dick, faggot!”

He aims his gun to my head. I close my eyes tight. I feel my head slam back onto cold, hard concrete. Even though I am dead, my heart has a few weak beats left in it. My organs starts to shut down. My blood turns cold. I see a vision of my father who I never met because of his own suicidal death. I want to hug him but I can’t. He smiles and shakes his head with sad eyes.

“I tried to tell you, son.”

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry. Can’t you do something? Please!”

My body relieves itself for the last time and then I see nothing. I hear nothing. I feel nothing.

Posted on February 07, 2008 at 07:11 PM   |   Previous Entry   |   Next Entry   |   Entry List   |   Email Entry   |    Digg

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