I rocked back and forth on the bed, hands clasped together, eyes fixed on the television so hard it was like I was boring a hole through it. Memories started rolling back to me. High School. Pulling the straps of a wrestling singlet. Smoking my first hit of weed in Johnny B’s garage. My cousin Shal covering for me when I snatched one of my uncle’s porno magazines. Rosma, my once bride to be. My father pointing to a shadow cat in the zoo, giving me words of wisdom. A bat clinking as a baseball soared into the stands, both of us roaring as the Phillies won. Driving that old cadillac that he gave me as my first car, wind in my hair. A glimpse of my father, his face with two bullet holes in it, the crimson suit he was buried in, the color of blood, of war, of hobgoblins.
Tyzee pulled her long hair away from her face. I could feel her staring at me. “You must be really close to your family, if you count on them. You know, in this kind of situation.”
I nodded, without looking back. “You can always count on family.”
Thing was, they didn’t realize, what kind of family I really meant.
From the Author
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Dungeons & Gangsters Page 17
