Never trust a survivor until you know what they did to survive.

_____

A fat cigar in his mouth while he stood beside the pool table, powdering the end of his pole.

“The corner pocket, left side,” he called, as he bent and pocketed the black eight-ball with ease. He gathered the wad of cash beside the ash tray and rolled himself another cigarette.

His friend saw, put down his beer bottle and stood, “You sell that?”

“Nah, man,” said the champ. “I smoke it.”

“Ain’t that some shit. ‘Know how much you could get from that there? Enough to buy better, fo sho,” said his friend, sniffing the air.

A drug addict wife, three kids, two dogs, a cat and one old truck that barely ran. “Come on, old girl. Come on,” he’d say to it as he cranked it on cold mornings before school.

He’d hop fences and run from cops. He’d beat people with a twin set of bats he carried around. Shotguns by the door, he had abs and a small goatee. He wore his cap backwards when he dealt and forwards around his Momma.

He sold stuff and cut grass, he had a stroke and couldn’t work. Supporting a family got hard. No, what he did wasn’t right- the selling. But it’s how he survived. How we survived.

That was my Dad, he kept his business away from his family, loved kids, always had time for anything. The best man in the world, by far.

And you can’t tell me otherwise.

_____

A big hoodie, ripped jeans and Nikes. She stood beside the bench in the courtyard at school, a girl walked up to her with a mouthful of spit.

“Why don’t you shit in one hand and hope in the other, you thot. See where the fuck it gets your wronchy ass,” said the girl in the hoodie.

She’s short. Long, golden brown hair and a blue eye with a slightly green eye. She’d been hurt bad- violence wound its way into her life after her Dad and Mom passed.

A teacher saw and sauntered over, putting down his clipboard and crossing his arms, “Ladies,” he said, “move along.”

“Nah man,” said the hoodie girl. “This bitch had something to say. I wanted to hear it with my own two ears ‘fore I messed that mouth of hers up real bad.”

An abusive past, no one to turn to or lean on. “It’s okay,” she’d whisper to herself at nights when the demons closed in. When the voices told her to end it all.

She’d dealt drugs, made-out with the baddest guys in her small town and gotten involved in gangs. She fights guys and girls, punches walls and hates girls for being such happy pussies when she has to be so strong.

She has a mouth as big as a bass, she doesn’t care to get her hands bloody. She’s been told she’s the “no bullshit” type of girl. She speaks her mind too quick and loves a good bloodbath. She’ll show her teeth quick- it won’t be a smile you get.

How do I know? Because that’s me. I keep my business away from my family, I love little kids. I don’t have family to give time to. I’m not the best in the world. I never will be.

And you can’t tell me otherwise.