We never told anyone what happened.
Not the full story.
Syx’s mama was my aunt—my father’s younger sister. She’d been an addict for years, in and out of rehab, burning bridgesfaster than she could build them. But she was still family. So, my daddy let Syx watch while the man who took his mama got peeled like a potato. His own flesh falling at his feet. Every time he’d pass out, my daddy would wake his ass up.
Syx was still blood.
So, I took him in.
Got him out of the Ninth Ward, set him up in one of the rooms here, made sure he had money, food, and a roof that didn’t leak. I paid for the therapy when the nightmares started—when he’d wake up in the middle of the night convinced he was suffocating, convinced the walls were closing in.
Dr. Melancon was the best trauma specialist in the city. Cost me $400 an hour.
I didn’t care.
Syx was my lil’ cousin.
And family didn’t get left behind.
“You takin’ the meds she prescribed?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Syx.”
“I don’t like how they make me feel, man,” he said, his voice tight. “Like I’m floatin’. Like I’m not really here.”
“You’re not supposed to feel like you’re suffocating every night either.”
“I know.”
“Then take the damn meds.”
He looked away, his jaw working. “Aight.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “I’m serious, Syx. You don’t take care of yourself, you’re no good to anybody. Not to me. Not to yourself.”
“I said aight, Amai.”
I studied him for a long moment, seeing past the bravado, past the cocky grin and the reckless energy. Seeing the kid who’dbeen buried alive with his mama’s body, who still woke up screaming in the middle of the night.
“You need anything?” I asked.
“Nah. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, man. I’m good.”
I nodded. “Then get some sleep. And stop lurking in my house.”
He grinned—smaller this time, but real. “Aight, cuz.”
He turned and headed back down the hallway, his locs swinging behind him.
I stood there in the kitchen, the weight of everything settling back onto my shoulders.
The violence at the jewelry shop.
