Page 107 of 4 Corinthians

“You don’t know that nigga like that to be thinking that shit,” Exodus said, shaking his head.

“Four has some anger issues,” Nine sighed. “He had a fucked-up childhood; it’s a lot of shit that even I don’t know because he won’t talk about it. But ain’t no doubt in my mind that he didn’t mean to hurt you; I need you to understand he didn’t mean it. He’s going to feel like shit when he wakes up and realizes what happened.”

“He’s done that before?” Exodus asked Nine.

“Not in a long time,” Nine answered, shaking his head.

“When was the last time?” Exodus questioned him. His hands went to his pocket.

“When he fought Citrine,” Nine answered, locking eyes with Exodus.

“Nigga, Four is the reason Citrine got that shit fanny pack and you over here talking about he didn’t mean to break her fingers?” Krude threw his hands in the air and started walking in circles. “Y’all gotta be kidding me.”

Exodus started to laugh and shook his head. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him slowly take his hand out of his pocket. His favorite rosary dangled from his fist.

“Sissy, come on,” Psalms said, coming to my side. “Let’s go get your hand looked at.”

I looked down at Uri, still passed out. His chest rose and fell rhythmically, but his face showed the pain he was holding onto. No matter how many years passed, he was still that body locked in the cages with me. And that’s why I said that us being more than strangers was a mistake. We held too much pain.

Yet, we couldn’t walk away from each other.

***

“So, we aren’t going to talk about this?” Psalms asked me hours later once we were back at my house. I sat on the couch, looking out the window at Uri’s house. It was dark; he wasn’t home.

“There isn’t anything to talk about.” I rubbed the bridge of my nose and dropped my head back to look at the ceiling.

“There isn’t anything to talk about?” she laughed. “Are you hearing yourself right now? Corinthians, there are a million things we need to talk about. The biggest one is the fact that Four is around and you’re acting like the shit from our childhood didn’t happen. That his daddy didn’t-“

“Robert isn’t his father,” I cut her off. “He’s the nigga that tortured him, me, and a bunch of other fucking people. Do not give him the title of anything other than that.”

“Fine, so we are going to act like Robert didn’t-“

“I know what he did to me.” I lifted my head to look at my sister. “I was there; I’m very much aware of the shit. I even have the scars to prove it. And so does Uri.”

“Then why are you acting like everything is okay? If y’all have the scars, then how the fuck are you sitting there with two broken damn fingers because of that nigga yet acting like it’s not a big deal?”

“Because he didn’t mean to.”

“He didn’t mean to?” She stared at me as if I had grown a million heads. “Are you fucking serious right now?” She shook her head. “He meant that shit.”

“He didn’t,” I denied. I sat forward, rested my elbows on top of my thighs, and put my face in my palms, making sure to be cautious of my injured fingers.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I saw the look in his eyes,” I told her. I lifted my head to look at her. Psalms stood in front of me. Her hands on her hips, her face full of concern and eyes filled with fire. She was scared and pissed off. “You won't understand, Bug, because you didn’t deal with what we did. I know him, his fears, his pain.”

“He can't even fucking feel pain,” she scoffed.

I laughed even though it wasn’t shit funny. I did it to get a grip on my anger. I hated it when people said that. He could absolutely feel pain, emotional pain, and probably more than anyone else I knew.

“Stop talking to me, Bug,” I said, shaking my head. I got up and walked to the kitchen to get some water.

Psalms followed behind me, heavy on my heels. “Stop talking to you? That’s where we are right now? After all the shit we've been through? You want me to stop talking to you because of Four?”

“I want you to stop talking to me about Uri!” I yelled and slammed the refrigerator door. “I want you to stop telling me about the boy I knew because you didn’t know him! You saw glimpses of him. You saw him when he wasn’t at his lowest. You don’t get to tell me about him. About anybody else, sure, you can say what you want, but him? No, you don’t get to tell me about him.” I ran my hand through my short hair and tried to get control of my temper. I wasn’t upset with Psalms. I was overwhelmed. I wanted to see Uri. I needed to make sure he was okay and not blaming himself for something he couldn’t control. His survival instincts kicked in, and all he could do was try to get me.

I was a trigger for him. Another reason, I thought we were a mistake.