Why do you pick fights with other boys? It's the question Ryan has been running from all his life. The answer will shock you.
For as long as Ryan can remember, he's always wanted to be someone special. Now, a promising high school wrestler and a po...
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For as long as most Barclay residents could remember, Texas street always had one of the worst reputations in town. No one knew that more than Kenny. The violence, abuse, and trauma that happened daily on Texas Street was etched into his mind like a tattoo. The memories he had growing up there, even the good ones, carried with them a troubling weight. But the memories that stuck with him the most, the ones that were most impactful, were from his childhood.
On one particular day, an eight-year-old Kenny woke up in his small, 200 square root room. Like most days, the room was in a chaotic disorganization. His clothes and miscellaneous possessions littered the floor, making the ground nearly invisible. Squashed into a wall was the only cabinet he had to put his stuff away. In the past, he had tried to fit all the stuff on the ground into his cabinet and closet, but to no avail.
His stomach growled loudly. The acid in his stomach had made sleeping the night prior a struggle. He woke up multiple times in the middle of the night feeling like his insides were on fire. His mother was out most of the night, so he and his baby brother had gone without dinner. Sometime around 4 AM, he heard his mother return home.
Maybe she brought cereal. The thought was calming enough to send him to sleep.
Kenny got out of bed and went to his closet to change clothes. His lack of energy and the close proximity of the closest to his bed made opening the closet door a tough task.
Maybe if I just rip it off, I won't have to deal with it.
Using all his strength, Kenny finally opened the door. To his disappointment, it didn't break off. Instead, a giant pile of clothes fell on him.
Motherfucker.
As he put on his clothes, he could hear his mother lighting a cigarette. The smell from the smoke entered his room. Occasionally, the second-hand smoke would make him light-headed or give him a headache. Today it didn't bother him.
In the kitchen, his mother was halfway through her cigarette. Though she appeared tranquil in her still, smoking state, there was an underlying intensity. Kenny could tell there was something wrong with her as he entered the room. On the left side of her face was a new bruise, a replacement for the one she had about a week prior. Kenny suspected she was seeing someone, but he hadn't met the new boyfriend nor did he want to.
"Mom," he said. "I'm hungry."
"Go make yourself something then."
The pointedness of her response didn't upset him. If anything, it suggested there was food to eat. Enthusiastically, he began rummaging through the kitchen cabinets, but after searching, his excitement died.
"There's nothing to eat." He felt like he was going to die.
"That's because we got no money."
He knew further engaging with mother would probably lead to a bad outcome, but his hunger was getting the best of him. "What am I going to eat then?"
