by C.G. Banks
*
He seemed to be stumbling around in a room hung floor to ceiling with black curtains. He was very weak and disoriented; when he tried to call out, nothing came. With a great will he concentrated on his eyes, and opened them to the light, and a weird, droning lecture that appeared to be going on.
It took him several more minutes to get a grasp on where he was. A memory of a school bus hinted that he was probably at school. That would fit in with the voice he was hearing, but who the hell was it? He tried to turn his head and almost screamed. There was a violent ripping at his throat. He made out what appeared to be an up-ended table lying close by. And surely those overhead lights were the ones in the ‘Chronic’s classroom.
The pain began to clear up his foggy memory. Suddenly, he remembered the gun, the set of the Chronic’s mouth right before he’d pulled the trigger. The fuckin Cracker had shot him! Goddammit, he couldn’t believe it! He laid there several more minutes trying to assimilate the tattered information that was flooding his brain.
He didn’t move, scarcely breathed. He needed some time to get his thoughts together. Oddly enough, the thing that had hold of him the hardest was shame. He could not believe the Chronic had shot him. And from the looks of things, it was pretty bad. Jerome knew he was dying; he could feel it. But this belief did not cause him any fear. If anything, it made him more pissed off. He’d never saw this shit coming; he’d been Jerome the Killa since twelve years old, the day he’d knifed the dope dealer. And now he could feel his life draining out of him because he’d missed-guessed a fucking Cracker weirdo. Muthafuck, what a way to go.
He tried to move his fingers and found that he could. So he wasn’t paralyzed.
The lecture continued, its range wild, coming in fits and starts. It even sounded like the Chronic was crying. Jerome heard the wail of approaching sirens. Police on the way to save him; it was so ridiculous.
He managed to turn his head a little to the left. He found himself staring into the bug-eyed, blood-spattered face of Jermaine Wilson. Tasha was sitting right next to him, but she wasn’t looking down. She was staring straight into where the voice was coming from. Jerome played out his right hand and found the cool surface of the up-ended table. That would provide his barricade, hopefully. He had one thing left to do. He began pulling in his left foot, getting it closer so he could fish the 9mm. out of his sock.
The Chronic was gonna die. And it wouldn’t be by any goddamn cops either. Jerome was gonna kill him, and then Jerome was gonna die himself. And then he would chase that motherfucker all the way to hell.
There it was, right where he knew it would be. He pulled it free and winced as it knocked off the floor. He was sure the Chronic heard that; he knew the lecture would stop and he’d see the gray head peering over the top of the table. But the voice never stopped; the nut just kept on talking.
Jerome rolled over onto his side. He didn’t care what Jermaine did or saw now. He wouldn’t figure in this anyway, Jerome knew. It hadn’t been in the vision. He got the gun right in his hand, fighting every second to hold the pain at arm’s length. He was appalled at the amount of blood. He knew he’d never make it to his feet, but that really wasn’t the plan anyway.
