Lyrics from an Old Soul

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Rayhana

“Today, we’re going to watch a documentary on William Faulkner. He was an aspiring author whose writings revolutionized his generation. He. . .” The words of my American Literature professor, Dr. Stroud, are drowned out by the presence of my own thoughts. While he’s still talking, I take pleasure in my own writings. Unlike the works of Faulkner, my writings are actually relevant to me in my distress. Excuse me for being honest, but no amount of energy spent on analyzing the works of some early 20th century buff is going to get me out of here. I need a plan; I need an escape from this place, it only serves as a constant reminder of what I’ve already lost.

The bell rings, and class is over. I have about an hour or two until my next class of crap; so, I think I’ll spend it in my own company.

****

Danielle

Who’s ever lifted his eyes and really wished upon a star? Was it real or just imaginary? Who’s ever closed his eyes to envelope himself into a happy ever after? Yeah, me neither. I used to believe in wishes and happy endings, but now, I know the truth. Dreams and hopes of fairytale living are as close to raw hogwash as anyone can get. The idea of fairness, and you get what you put out is horse crap. Life’s not fair, and in the real world, good girls always finish last; in my life anyways. Here I am, on the cemented steps as they hoist me up to see every detail of my tormented life. There’s a liquor store on the corner of East and 1st, a few more apartments just like mine, dusty sidewalks, streets covered with snow, and finally, the empty warehouse at the end of the block. I used to believe that I could leave this place if I tried hard enough, but that’s not reality. I’ve been in this same rut for seventeen years, six months, two weeks, and three days. I’m pretty sure my future is set.

“Danielle, there you are. Girl, I’ve been looking all over for you.” Robin, my best friend for all extensive purposes, who’s just another short, plump, brown-eyed girl from the projects with fish lips and high cheekbones. The absolute last person I wanted to run into today.

“You haven’t looked far.”

“You missed third period! What’s up?” Nosy, did I forget to mention that? She’s very nosy.

“Staying black and minding my own business.”

“It’s your junior year. Keep this up and you’ll never graduate. And nobody wants a dumb broad.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“Ha! Ha! I see you got jokes. But for real, I worry about you sometimes. You used to be a fun, nerdy chick that stayed on ‘A’ honor Roll. Now you act like coming to class is worse than living on death row. To tell you the truth, you haven’t been acting like yourself since Randy got…”

“Don’t even say it. Don’t even speak his name!”

“Since Randy got killed. What happened to him, happened to him. Don’t curl up in the grave and die with him!”

That’s it. I’m out of here.

“Oh, where are you going?”

“Far away from here. You know I’m so tired of you always bringing this up like it’s some kind of trump card. That was my brother. You will never understand.”

“Danielle, don’t act like he was some war hero who died defending his family’s honor. He was a d**g-dealer, in the game like everyone else. He knew the life as well as the consequences that came along with it, yet he ignored them and went on about his business.”

“He only dealt to bring food into our house! You know what, I’ll see you later.” Off I go, down the steps and into the streets, yet again.

“Danielle!”

I keep walking.

“Danielle! You can’t keep running forever.”

"I’m good at it, so why stop now?" I can’t believe she went there. Randy wasn’t just my brother; he protected me. Without him, who else do I have?

I enter the bar on the inside of the nearby warehouse, a usual spot for me now days.

“Hey, hey.”

“Hey, Ms. Lady. You know, it’s a little early in the day. . . Not to mention that it’s illegal to sell to minors.”

“Yeah, I know. So why don’t you just pour me some anyway?” I need something fast, and I’m in no mood for her crap today.

“Alright, but just know that whatever trouble you’re trying to chase away will still be there after this drink . . . or two. . . .Seven, or eleven.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Two shots of gin have become my daily dose. My brother’s dead, my mom’s always mad at the world, and my father (who by no way deserves the name) left us to move south with his new wife (some foreign chick) and their children. Some life, hmmmm.