That night, I didn’t sleep. Just lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, something cold and hard forming in my chest. Something that felt like rage but sharper. More focused.
I thought about my father. About how Vivica said he was violent. Ruthless. A nigga who didn’t take shit from anybody.
Maybe I was more like him than she thought.
The next morning, I walked into school with a plan. My face still hurt from both beatings. My bruised ribs made it hard to breathe deep. But none of that mattered anymore.
I stopped by the gym on my way to homeroom. Taken a padlock from one of the lockers that was already broken. Big, heavy, solid brass. I slipped it in a sock. The weight of it in my hand felt right. Felt like power.
I found Tre before class started. He was by the basketball courts with Dre and Keyshawn, talking shit and laughing. Probably about me. Probably about how they’d made the fat kid cry.
My hands were shaking, but I kept them steady. Practiced the grip the way I’d imagined it all night.
“Y-yo, Tre.”
He turned around, that same smug-ass grin on his face. “Oh shit, look who came back for more. Fat retard want another beatdown?”
Dre shoved me. “N-n-nah, he came to c-c-cry some more.”
I didn’t respond. Didn’t try to explain. Didn’t stutter through some weak-ass excuse.
I just pulled my hand out of my pocket and swung with everything I had.
The padlock connected with Tre’s temple and the sound—God, the sound—was like a homerun. Crack. Wet. Final.
His head snapped sideways so violently I heard his neck pop. Blood exploded from the impact point, spraying across my face, my shirt, the concrete.
Tre dropped like someone cut his strings. Just collapsed, his legs giving out, his body hitting the ground hard.
But I didn’t stop.
Couldn’t stop.
I was on him before Dre or Keyshawn could even process what just happened. The padlock fell somewhere and didn’t need it anymore. My fists were enough.
I hit him again. And again. And again.
His face changed with each punch. Nose caving in with a crunch. Orbital bone shattering. Teeth breaking. Blood pouring from his mouth, his nose, bubbling up with each ragged breath.
“Pren! PRENTICE! Stop! You’re killing him!”
Dre and Keyshawn were screaming, trying to pull me off, but I shrugged them off like they weighed nothing. The rage made me strong. Made me fast. Made me someone else entirely.
Every punch was for every day they’d made me feel small.
Every punch was for every time Vivica looked at me with disgust.
Every punch was for being born looking like a dead man she hated.
“SOMEBODY HELP! HE’S GONNA KILL HIM!”
Teachers came running. Security guards. They dragged me off, but by then it was done.
Tre wasn’t moving. His chest barely rising. Blood was everywhere, pooling under his head, splattered on the concrete, soaked into my clothes.
His face didn’t look like a face anymore. Just meat and broken bone.
“Call 911! NOW!”
