I was born on the wrong side of the tracks, literally. I've heard stories about how this used to be one city, Pendelton. You had the upper side, where all the rich people lived, with high end shops and restaurants, the whole nine yards. Then you had the lower side where all the poor people live with the slums and ghettos and little mom and pop shops.
Then the government stepped in, just as it always does, wanting to build a transcontinental railroad. The original plan was to build it either to the north of town or south of town, then they met with the rich folk and it was decided that they would split the city and make two cities north and south. After the steel cut us in two the north prospered while the south declined.
Anyone with enough money fled to the north, taking with them the jobs and revenue they brought to their prospective communities. It was like draining the lifeblood out of a body and expecting the corpse to make it on its own. But none of that mattered because the south had no say, no voice when the decisions were being made and finalized.
After that it all went downhill. Violent crime jumped to new highs never seen before. Destruction and defacement of private property rose steadily. Gangs, which were mostly protectors and keepers of their communities, became violent and dangerous. No soul was left untouched by the living decay. It was a veritable hell on Earth.
That is the situation that I was born into in South Pendelton. My parents were so poor we didn't even have a place we could call home. Everyday was a struggle for survival. Keeping food in our bellies and clothes on our back required creative means of making money. More often than not we would have to steal what we needed.
This included the books my mother insisted I read, which were my primary education outside of the streets. She was determined that I be given the proper tools to make it out of the slums. It was her vision, her ardent dream, that I ascend to the north and fashion my own life, rather than be at the mercy of the fates. Her hope was for me, but she hoped it would elevate her status as well.
She never said anything about father and I never asked. My parents were strict and stern. They had to be. Loose kids on the street had a habit of dying. I grew up tough. I asked for nothing. I either bought it or stole what I needed. I followed in my father's footsteps and became a freelancer for anyone who needed muscle. I got real good at breaking bones and taking a hit.
My mom would tease me. She'd call me the bull and the world was my china shop. It always made me laugh which was the one emotion I never let take hold of me. Even my dad's death, while doing his job, didn't make me cry and I was real sorry to see him go. I just let it, like everything, seep into my skin and harden. I became the bull and nothing could touch me.
Then I met Emile. She was like the rain coming to a parched Earth, devoid of anything that could be considered living. At first she would have nothing to do with me. She saw the bull like everyone else did and she was scared of it. I stalked her, there is no other way of putting it. I was careful, she didn't even know I was there. She always walked the same streets.
One night, while I was following her, a couple of hoodlums appeared from out of nowhere. They cornered her and harassed her. It was obvious that money and sex were on their collective minds. She didn't say no, you don't say no to these kinds of characters else they just take what they want. She had to lead them on some while she searched for a way out.
I became that way. I stepped onto the streets and walked up on them without saying a word. The two hoodlums took one look at the bull and they knew who I was and what I can do. They left without a word and we were alone. She looked at me and though I tried to remain tough, to impress her, a single flash of her pearly whites were all that was necessary to turn me into jelly.
I saw her whenever I could and I loved her with all the love that my heart could give. One thing became abundantly clear to me, I did not deserve her. I knew that if a lowly man such as myself was to keep her then I had to step up my game. No more freelancing or talking on random jobs in general. It may pay good, due to the lack of overhead, but there is no room for advancement.
I sign up with the biggest of the gangs that has hold of the center of our city. I'm assigned to guard the boss' private residence which sits atop of city hall, their reach is that deep. It's a coveted position, one that's sure to fast track me to the top and I only got it because of my reputation for being a tough S.O.B. who never backs down.
There's a party being held tonight. A charity event meant to draw out wealthy backers from the north in the guise of helping illiterate children. I'm standing near the door to his quarters. My forty-five is tucked in my shoulder holster and a walkie in my pocket. I'm ready and alert. I will not let the boss down. He can always count on me and I need him to know that.
I hear the sound of the blast shutter closing on the stairs which effectively cuts off the lower floor from the private quarters. I pull out my walkie and ask what's going on. The guys downstairs have no idea what I'm talking about and are dismissive of my urgency as I am the new guy. I tell them to search the grounds, someone might already be inside so stay alert.
I watch the stairs and catch sight of someone ascending with a steady, even pace. I must be seeing things, but it looks like there's a shadow covering his entire face. He's wearing all black and has a slim build. I put my hand to my pistol and walk to a spot that gives me adequate distance from the staircase. I hold myself ready as he reaches the top stair.
I pull out my handgun and aim it directly at his head. "Hold it right there," I command in a calm voice and keep both eyes open.
He holds for a moment, but does not raise his hands. He just continues to walk.
"I said hold it," I repeat and tighten up on my trigger finger.
He doesn't stop.
"You asked for this," I tell him and squeeze the trigger.
The bullet flies directly at his head, but before it can make contact it is swallowed up by, I don't know what, and my right knee explodes the very next second. I fall on my knee and drop my pistol. I have no idea what just happened., but I'm trying my darndest not to succumb to the pain that courses through my leg.
He doesn't even hesitate, he just keeps walking towards the door as though I'm not even there. I hear my walkie go off, but I ignore all the shouting being transmitted. I take the pain and channel it to my rage. You don't shoot a bull, it only pisses it off. I stand on my wounded leg and charge heavy at him. He wasn't expecting me to do anything more than cry in a corner.
I hit him full on and rush him to the nearest wall where I slam his body and press it as hard as I can. He violently exhales air and I can feel his bones getting ready to give under the pressure. I can feel it, this fight is over. I throw a hand to seal the deal and am surprised to find he is still able to avert his head and allow my fist to slam into the wall.
Pain radiates through my body and fuels my anger. I throw another fist. I watch it get swallowed up and feel something slam into my midsection. I've never been hit like this before. It pushes the air out of my lungs and makes me stagger backward and lose hold of my foe. I quickly recover and stare red at him while he just stands there.
I rush him again and find myself charging into something that swallows me up and spits me out against a wall. I hit it full force and feel more than a little dazed and quite bruised. All of my muscles feel weak and my stomach is churning. Something wants to come up, but I won't let it. I focus myself and find that I'm on the other side of the room.
He starts to walk toward the door, but I'm not finished with him yet. I will my legs to stand up and put all I have into another charge. I'm paying more attention this time. I see the tear form in front of him. I quickly spin about and hit from a new angle. A linebacker's got nothing on me. I impact his right side and this time I give him my full shoulder and send him into the wall.
The clean hit causes my berserker rage to subside and I can feel the wound in my knee screaming. I hit the floor with my wounded leg and the pain is so intense I nearly black out, but I hold on and remain conscious. I look over at the guy. He's lying in a heap and breathing heavy. He stirs and sits up against the wall and his face is exposed.
"Why are you doing this?" he asks me and puts a hand to his head.
"It's my job to keep people out of the boss' quarters," I explain as I sit myself down.
"What do you know about your boss?" he puts to me and rubs his temples.
"He's the boss, what's there to know?" I throw back and look at the damage the bullet caused to my knee.
"You're boss is a man who has brought pain on those around him," he continues as he adjusts his jaw.
"It's called trying to survive in South Pendelton," I educate him as I attempt to stand, but find I do not have the strength to proceed and so settle back on the floor.
"And you feel that this survival is worth the destruction of some many countless lives?" he rebuts as he stops fidgeting with himself and focuses on me.
I drop my head some. "The unfortunate reality is there isn't enough resources in this city to go around," I proceed as I raise my head and look him dead in the eye. "It makes us dogs who tear each other apart and beg for scraps from the rich folk in North Pendelton."
"And do these scraps help you?" he cuts straight through my argument as he extends a hand as though offering something.
"They do not," I admit and pull back a bit. "All the scraps do is remind us how hungry we are."
"Then why sacrifice so much just to get a taste?" he deflects back and closes his hand as he draws it back.
"Because we have nothing else!" I shout before reigning my voice in as I advance before sitting back down. "All that we have is little more than what we shake loose from a tree whose fruit is always just out of reach."
"Then what is the point to any of it?" he carries on and sits back against the wall.
"You may as well ask what is the point to living," I return and set a hand on my thigh. "We live every day fighting to survive, fighting to see another day. It's a hard life and it's bloody and covered in garbage, but it is the only life available to us."
He cups his chin and prepares to speak.
"What the hell is going on!" a voice shouts through my walkie.
I hear the shutter activate and turn my head. When I look back he's gone.
The room floods with guards all dressed to the nines for the party. The boss comes out of his quarters and demands to know what happened. I take a moment to consider what is logically feasible given the situation. I start by saying that an armed assailant somehow activated the shutters, got the drop on me and put a bullet in my knee.
He roughed me up as he demanded that I open the door, to give him access. I refused, but he kept trying anyway and would not take no for an answer. He didn't stop till the blast shutter started opening. I looked away and he was gone. The boss doesn't like the last part. He rants and raves at me and pokes at my wounded knee with his cane.
He tells the guards to spread out and look for the intruder. He turns to me and tells me I'm fired. I use the reserves of my strength to stand up and walk, not limp, away. On the walk home I wonder if I'd told the incredible truth would things have ended differently? Most likely not. I would have been accused of covering my incompetence with an impossible story.
I hole up in my current, shithole apartment and lay down on my couch which is falling apart. I really should go to a hospital, but I don't have anywhere near enough money to cover the expense. So I just sit back and keep my leg elevated on a cushion. I fight to remain conscious as I'm certain that if I sleep now I probably won't wake up.
Emile pays me a visit and one look at the gunshot wound has her flying about the place looking for materials. She sets to work on my knee with a pair of pliers and her nail file both of which she douses in a bottle of booze that I had lying around. She sets to work and uses the file to pull away at the ruined flesh while looking for the bullet which turns out had fragmented.
She works on my knee for a solid hour, all the while I experience pain like I've never known before, the kind of pain only an angel can bestow. Eventually she's able to dig out every fragment that she can find. She pours the bottle over my wound and it drives the pain up my leg like there's a thousand forks underneath my muscles. After which she grabs a somewhat clean shirt and uses it for a bandage.
My days pass on just as they had before with all the dirt and grime I'm used to. I try to stay off my leg, but when I walk, I walk. I go back to freelancing, but every face I smash, every bone I break puts me back to that night and the man wearing black. I wonder what had he intended to accomplish. After all, I wasn't his target. I just got in the way.
Then there was the brief conversation we had. I wonder just how much he knew about living in a tough environment. What kind of home did he grow up in? What kind of childhood did he have? Did he have to spend every waking moment with sharpened ears to listen for the sound of the unnatural quiet that always came before the bullets started flying?
You can't know this life unless you lived it, breathed it, tasted it. You can't learn what we, the underprivileged, go through unless you crawl in the dirt with us and eat it by the handful. We breathe polluted air and drink dirty water, all the while trying to keep death away when it lives right next door. All we can do is live one day at a time and hope it's not our last.