Picasso's Promise

Pilot

❀ TRIGGER WARNING ❀

Before reading this book, I should warn you about the content in this novel. This part is dramatic, but most the story is not this sad! I promise. There will be death, violence, some drug and alcohol usage/abuse, bullying, excessive use of profanity, suggestive language, sexual themes, and triggering adult themes. Topic such as: suicide, child abuse, and different forms of harassment. If those kinds of things bother you, please do not read this book.

❀

2008
Compton, California

Picasso's P.O.V.

The first person I ever thought of killing, at the joyous age of eight years old, was my stepfather.

For me to be that blunt, most would conclude that I didn't have the best surroundings during my upbringing. Wish I could deny it; I considered myself a product of my environment. I wouldn't say my home was any different than the people in my complex. Violence was normalized quickly, leading adult matters to spill into my adolescence far sooner than for most my age. I picked a gun up at seven, shooting at bottles, and stole the keys to my mom's van at twelve. Growing up with minimal parental guidance led to an interesting childhood, mostly bad. But I still had all my fingers and working limbs, so that was a bonus.

The shaking walls, echoing shouts of screams pouring in from the alleyways, and bickering that could be heard from the parking garage was typical. I didn't know if a real relationship could exist without broken glass on the kitchen floor and police reports. The model I was shown at a young age taught me that a restraining order was part of the agreement and so were shattered cabinets, smashed in the heat of a fight.

Sweet, gentle moments between my parents were few and far between. And that, in the end, was why I was happy when my mother walked away from the burning building we called a home.

The tipping point, for my sister and I, was the morning my mother decided to leave him for good.

My mother and sister had exploded into an argument late in the night when mom came home crying. She had arrived alone, running into the house and locking the door as though she was fleeing from the clasps of death. If she was frightened any more, I feared her eyes would fall out of her sockets from how terrified she looked, trembling by the entrance.

Having seen so many of their fights, even at that age, I knew not to react too soon. This was a new tactic of mine, mainly because I was sad about the last attempt I made to comfort my mother. During her last breakdown, I had swiftly gone to her side and wrapped my arms around her. The second my hand looped around her neck, she pushed me into the wall, scaring me away from her for the rest of the day.

It wasn't until bedtime when she snuck into my room with an apology in the form of a new toy. We didn't talk about what happened after that day.

For that reason, I pretended as if I hadn't seen or heard anything, allowing myself to be absorbed by the glow of the television. There was something freeing about the act, escaping the conflict ensuing in the living room. I had Family Matters reruns on, hating every second of the gleeful people I saw grace the glass screen.

Why can't I be like you? I had wished.

At that point, despite my youth, I sensed that there was something off about the arrangement of my family. It was stark in contrast to the loving married relationship I saw represented on screen, blossoming a form of resentment toward these grinning strangers.