My Aunt Hes always used to joke, "One boy, one brain. Two boys, half a brain. Three boys, no brain." It was funny even to the guys, I guess we could all see a grain of truth in it. But when it came to the gangs all the humour was gone - none of them thinking and all of them armed.
There is a fine line between making no eye contact and just enough to convey your deference to the gangs. Each one needs to feel I am loyal to them without me ever having to commit. To choose a side is to enter the fight and I have no interest in their closed down world of violence and hatred. I don't think anything turns intelligence down faster than fear. The gang members may have been smart before they joined up, but together they are brainless. I've know junkies with more morals. So as my feet follow the cement sidewalk I keep an awareness of who is around and my face impassive. No emotion is best, anything can be taken the wrong way, anything at all. As I approach the gang I let my eyes meet theirs for just a moment, give a slight nod, then cast my eyes downward once more.
The gang wore masks much of the time, though the effect was the same when they took them off. Whoever they once were, boys and girls grinning on each Christmas Eve, they were buried deep, lost. All that was left to keep them fired up and moving was energy from the dark side: the slick joy of power, an addiction to inflicting fear, a desire to jack their adrenaline to ever higher heights. Other people weren't people at all, they were either "family" or to be exploited - bonds forged for selfish gain masquerading as brotherhood.
The gang stole Drew from us a piece at a time. Every week they pushed him slightly further until not only did he have no morals, he thought that way of thinking was a desirable freedom. His family, we who truly loved him, became his enemy. He looked at us like we were vile to him. Then one day I found him shaking in his bedroom, crying like the sun had been stolen from the sky, his hands slick with another's blood. That's the last time I ever saw the real Drew, in that moment of remorse. After that he sunk so low into his new m.o. that no-one got close unless they were bringing news of the next gang order.
Nobody joins a gang without being a lost soul first. No-one goes to a monster for guidance unless it's their only option. Yet I can't underestimate this gang boy, however young he is. Until the head of any serpent is removed, you ignore the body at your peril. Given his youth he is perhaps more reachable than an older boy, given the right therapy and endless unconditional love he could be saved. I can't think about that right now though; I can't be the "bleeding heart" mother to the world for my own sake. Right now the kid's got only cold eyes and he's following all the wrong animal instincts. Truly, he's a boy with no mama, or at least one that can't reach him, and in the end it's all the same. All he craves is the gang leader's approval and perhaps the drugs if they've started him on those already.
I have walked these streets my whole life, I know them just the same as if they were etched in my head with a sharp knife, scored in deep like some strange work of art. These are the streets I grew up on and for the most part I'm calm here, at home, on the down low with a steady heart beat. Not tonight though. Tonight my heart wants out of my chest. It wants to beat free of its cage. It pounds like it's going to crack a rib. My senses are on high alert. Every colour is brighter, every noise louder, every stranger a cause to make my heart beat more fiercely still. It's been like that since the bikers came to town, marking out their turf like a wolf pack. I don't even deal drugs but they mean to dominate everyone regardless. They've got Kenny dealing for them already, there goes his grades, there goes his life. So now the streets that were my salvation spike my adrenaline as good as a shot to the arm.
The sun is above my head, baking my dark hair, slowly simmering my brain in its cerebral fluid. I want to seek shade but that will only make me later, and I'm late enough already. As my feet pound the hot tarmac I keep an eye on my shadow. Any significant shape beyond this blobby puddle that laps my toes and I'm in deep trouble. Getting there later than one o'clock means being fired, and these gangs don't just hand you a pink slip. Despite the heat I begin to run, sweat washing mascara into my eyes, stinging...
When we near the intersection Jake develops a limp. I want to tell him to knock it off, he really can’t act for shit, but we’re in earshot of some Happy Boys. The Happy Boys block our path and demand a trader token. Being smaller and female I am ignored. They glance at me as if considering a challenge, but then just step aside. The grilling is clearly too much effort for them. Jake strolls on forgetting his limp as I knew he would. Lucky for us they are distracted in conversation, macho posturing from what I can tell.
Found in Darwin's Ghost- first draft, authored by daisy.
By the way they don't rush at me en-masse I know my reputation hasn't preceded me. Either the gangs give me a wide beth or go wholesale until they're all dead or running away. All they see is a woman with one blade. The leader leans back on the concrete wall of the old police station and crunches an apple. On a flick of his hand three tough guys, each with a blue armband, step forwards. Before he takes another bite I have them bleeding out on the moon-bleached sidewalk. He takes that second bite and crunches it slowly. My face is stoney but my heart is beating fit to burst, I'm massively outnumbered. Then the apple eater steps forwards, casting down the rare fruit as if he had a hundred others like them. He extends is hand, quite unarmed, "Carlos." I don't reply. He's expecting introductions, why? This isn't out of any playbook I know. He drops his hand and continues. "Ghost, if you ever disrespect me like that again I'll kill you." Then he smiles and walks away. Unbelievable.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by daisy.
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