Casualties of Karma

Chapter 1

Zinc fences. Board houses. Gun shots and sirens are your alarms and bedtime stories. Welcome to Fletcher's Land, Jamaica.

My government name is Devanté Dequan Jones. I'm known in the streets as Quincey. This is my story.

4 years ago.

"Yow! You know mi a go mash up JT face? You no see how the boy rush me today?" I reminisced back to today's happenings as a scowl twisted my face.

"Mercy. No bout three school expel you already? You start gi problem again me G?" Mike replied, laughing at my facial expressions.

I hissed my teeth and started kicking the stones along the roadside as I walked home with my classmates. It was true, I had been expelled from four schools since the beginning of my high school journey. Not because of my academic performance, but due to the fact that I was short tempered and did not take disrespect from anyone, regardless of age or size. Why should I when we all bled the same?

"Kick off the shoes mouth and see if you no wear Miss Sophia high heel go school," Mike interrupted my thoughts. "Think mi never hear her a threaten you?" he rang out as the other boys started laughing.

I started to answer back when I heard Miss Cherry, a local shopkeeper calling to me. Miss Cherry was the gossip mill of the community, standing as tall as a barrel and shaped like one also. Whenever you wanted to hear community members' business, just spend money at her shop and her mouth became as slippery as oil.

"Quincey! Quincey oy! You mada, you mada dead mi bwoy! Them shot Sophy kill her woii!" she wailed stammeringly, holding unto her drooping gut.

"Weh you say Miss Cherry?"

"Them shot you mada down a Coronation. She dead Quincey!"

I fell to the rocky road and wailed the passing of my mother. My father. My life support. My cheerleader. Mark you she wasn't a good, upstanding citizen. She was the best shooter in this side of the island and had the death certificates to prove it. She was also a scammer, a thief, a pathological liar and an on and off stripper down on Maxfield Avenue. But my sister and I knew it was for us. To put food and the table. Clothes on our backs. Take the stigma of ghetto baby off us whenever we leave the community.

"Which part she deh maam?" I managed to ask, wanting to see her beautiful face one last time.

"She deh a public," she replied, referring to the Kingston Public Hospital,  "me no know if them move her yet."

Grabbing my bag, I ran the journey to the hospital, praying that it was not true and it was somebody else. Upon arriving at the hospital, I saw a nurse dressed in all white and I hurriedly ran to her.

" Miss, is there a Sophia Pinnock on ward?" I asked in the manner I was raised to speak to authority.

"Who are you to her?" she asked, looking at me, doubled over trying to catch my breath.

"I'm her son," I replied, straightening up, trying to hurry along the conversation.

Sensing my impatience, she began, "Miss Pinnock is in surgery at the moment. She has been shot 6 times..."

"She's in surgery? That means she alive?" I interrupted her, hoping for the best.

"Yes she is."

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I felt it whooshing out of my lungs. I can't remember the last I prayed but I let you a sincere "Thank you Fada" as the nurse continued speaking.

"Hopefully, you'll be able to see her tomorrow if all goes well. However, it cannot be done now."

I nodded and turned to leave but my gut told me not to so I asked, "Can I stay until she's out of surgery please?"

"Ahmm, she's heavily monitored by police officers since this could have been a homicide but sure," she said. "Excuse me but I must leave. I have other business to attend to" and with that she hurried away.

I sat on the long iron chairs, outside the wards, holding my head, trying not to cry. My mind was all over the place but finally rested on my little sister. I wonder if they had broken the news to her better than they had done for me. Fresh tears sprung to my eyes as I wondered how my sister and I would function without any parents. Our father, bless his soul, was shot on a political motorcade by people that supported the opposition party. He was the best dad he could be, given the circumstances and influences we grew with. After his death, mommy had to take up the task of providing for us. Being a high school drop-out with no skills, her best bet was the streets. Now with the possibility of neither of them in our lives, I feared for the future.

After about three hours, a white man dressed in a white long coat with a clipboard in his hands, came to me. I jumped up hurriedly, praying for the best but dreading the worst.

"How is she doc?" I asked afraid for the answer.

"She's in a stable condition. She is being guarded by three police officers and she is in a drug induced sleep. Two of the shots came in contact with her spine. It is a possibility she'll never walk again."

Hearing that I started to cry as he continued, "there is not much more we can do. Go home, eat and get some rest. We'll see you in the morning."

I picked up my bag from where it fell on the floor, left my number at the nurse's station in the case of any changes and began the walk home.