His chest rose and fell, small gasps slipping out where words should've lived. Crown was at war. Torn between the man his mother wanted him to be and the man her death forced him to become too fucking early. Then the words he'd choked on erupted like vomit. Heavy with a power I wished my mother had used when speaking about me.
"You carry the strength of generations in your veins. Their greatness is yours. Their mistakes are your lessons. Keep your heart pure and your mind free. Stand tall, rise above, and all things will be yours. The crown doesn't have to be visible to know your spirit is kingly."
Crown recited it like scripture. Ragged sobs tore out of him before he could pull them back in. I stood from the bed, moving closer. I didn't want to crowd him, but wanted to be close enough, so he knew I was there if he needed me.
"Why she had to say some shit like just to not be here to witness it come to fruition?"
Crown slammed his fists into his chest like he wanted to pound the pain into submission.
"She was supposed to be here, and now she's gone,” he continued. “She left me here, and all I've done is skip school to bike past our old crib, so I can feel her energy again."
Crown collapsed to the floor, knees folded to his chest, rocking to a rhythm only grief could've choreographed. His hands tore through his unruly fro like he could dig his mother back into existence.
"The fuck am I supposed to do without her?" he rasped, eyes lifting to mine, wide and desperate.
I didn't have an answer. This wasn't how I saw this going. At most, I thought I'd have to run a fade with Crown. That I could handle. This… a thirteen-year-old, on the floor, tugging his hair, eyes dark and frantic, searching for answers I didn't have… wasn't my ministry. This was more of Navy's wheelhouse, but she wasn't here.
In this moment, Crown was me, the me who held the gun to his head, finger tickling the trigger. We were both lost, wandering one dark tunnel after another, trying to convince ourselves there was only one way out.
Mine was a gun. His was pills— different poisons, same war.
I couldn't let Crown go where I almost did. He deserved better than death, even if I still struggled with whether I did or not.
"Fuck Shadae!" he screamed for his mother.
He cried for his mother. Then laughed for her.
I crouched down, then sat and pulled him into my arms. He shoved me at first, but I held on tight.
"You're hurting," I said lowly. "But those pills won't make it hurt any less. You gotta live Crown. That's what your moms wanted for you. She told you, you're destined for greatness, not to burden you but to hold you up when she couldn't."
He shook harder.
"Fuck I'ma do without her? I'm alone out here. Those pills keep me lucid. They quiet my thoughts. I need them. They're my family, all I got left," he sniffled.
Gripping his shoulder, I told him, "Nah, you got me. Fuck them pills, I got you, my nigga. From this moment until I find myself locking eyes with the devil, I'm your brother. When it gets too loud, you come to me. I'll speak life into you the way your moms did if that's what you need. All I ask is that you don't give up on yourself 'cause if you do, you'll be giving up on her."
A few tears slid down my face as the memory faded. Crown moved into Gravehart Homes about six months after I settled in. To find my crew, I had a few of the incoming older kids rotating in and out of my room. I wanted to learn how they moved, learn their mannerisms, their weaknesses, and their strengths before putting them on. Crown came in solid. He didn't say much, kept his head down, and moved with an essence that said this wasn't a destination but a pit stop. Off that alone, I was willing to work with him until his third night in my room. Crown spent his eight hours of sleep drowning out his cries with a pillow over his face. A few times, I caught a name between his sniffles and assumed it belonged to his mom. I felt for the little nigga. My mother wasn't shit, but her memory still haunted me from time to time. Out the blue, Crown stopped crying. It took me a minute to piece together why, but once I did, I made up my mind that Crown needed protection.
You know how easy it is to tell the truth versus being mad at your brother?
Telling the truth wasn't as easy as Crown wanted to make it seem. Dark shit had twisted its vines around the truth, and if we weren't careful, the prick was gon' poison us all.
"Fuck!" I grunted, needing to shake these fucking thoughts.
Seeing a woman on the upcoming block selling flowers, I jogged over. Crown wasn't the only person I needed to fix things with.
"How much?" I asked breathlessly.
"Twenty-five each," She smiled.
"Let me get four. Two pink bouquets and two white." Going into my pocket, I pulled out two hundred-dollar bills and handed it over.
"Thank you." She gleamed as she handed me the flowers. I nodded, then jogged off, careful not to fuck up the bouquets before giving them to Navy.
You don't trust us enough to talk, nigga?
"Shut the fuck up," I grumbled, hearing Crown's voice yet again.
