Peacekeeper
Royce stared at a poster detailing the different parts of the human knee as he sat in the examination room that he’d begun to loathe entering. Most people had a dislike of going to the doctor’s office once or twice a year. He’d been in them so many times over the last few months that he may have gotten his fill for life.
Dr. Richards entered, holding his fist out to Royce. Royce obliged the older man, bumping his fist.
“Got any plans for the summer?” the doctor asked as he sat on the rolling stool in the room, glancing at the chart in his hands. “I’ve been trying to convince the wife to go down to the coast in Texas. Ever been to Lake Jackson?”
Royce shook his head. He’d rarely been outside of Louisiana period. Let alone to random locales he’d never heard of.
“It’s a great little town down in Brazoria. You should put it on your bucket list. Get your travel done while you’re young. Easier to do it when you don’t have any kids. Once you get them, you have to wait until they’re out of the house or you’re just going to Disney forty times a year.”
Royce offered an awkward laugh. There were many things wrong with that statement when it came to his view of his future for himself, but that wasn’t a medical doctor’s issue. That was something one brought up in therapy.
Dr. Richards clapped the chart closed and leaned forward on his knees. “So, how are we feeling today?”
“I’m pretty good. I mean, I still get a little pain from time to time, but it ain’t nothing that I ain’t used to. It’s not as bad as it was a few months ago.”
“It looks like you’re healing pretty well. You’re sticking to your physical therapy which is impressive for a young man your age. Most of these kids would’ve stopped going long ago. I think by the end of the year you should be right as rain.”
“So, about that,” Royce started. “I’ve been jogging and shit, nothing too serious, just a couple blocks. And, I’ve started lifting again. Nothing that puts weight on my leg yet, but you know, upper body and all.”
The doctor leaned back, opening the chart again to look it over. “Your PT hasn’t said that she’s ready for you to be doing higher impact exercises yet. How’s that been going? Feeling any pain or discomfort?”
Royce shrugged. “Nothing that I don’t feel when I’m just walking around. It’s not like I didn’t have all kinds of aches and pains before. Two-a-days beat your ass whether you’re fu—messed up or not.”
“I can’t argue with that. I remember my baseball days,” Dr. Richards said, a slight smile on his face for a moment. “It’s great you’re ahead of schedule then. I figured that once we got out of the worst of it, we’d really see how your body would react to healing.”
“So, that means I could maybe play football again?”
Dr. Richards sighed. “That I can’t say one way or the other. You’re going to be dealing with weakened bones and muscles for the rest of your life. You’ve got metal rods holding your leg together. It’s not just pain or discomfort. We’re talking about potential quality of life issues if you suffer any fractures or breaks.”
“Ain’t that the case for anyone playing football?”
“I guess you’re right,” the doctor said. “Look, I know you’re determined, and I admire that. You want some normalcy back and that was big part of who you were before. I think you should still wait it out and see how you continue to heal.”
“With all due respect, doc. I’m about to be a senior. If I don’t play this season, you might as well be telling me to hang it up for good. If there is even a slight chance that I could get some run again now, then I need to take it. It’s football. I’m probably going to have problems walking in my 50s either way.”
Dr. Richards tapped the chart against his leg as he stared at Royce. Royce held his gaze, feeling as though the doctor was looking for any sign of apprehension about his request.
“Royce, I can’t make you follow our advice. You have so far and that’s why you’re healing as well as you are. Let’s make a compromise, huh? You keep doing the PT, keeping doing the light exercise you’re doing and we can see where you are in a couple weeks. If you’re still feeling good then, I’d be more inclined to sign off. Deal?”
Royce nodded, a small victory in his long battle to get back on the field.
As he left the office, he returned the salutation from the front desk assistants for the first time since he’d started going to the clinic, his resolve strengthened that he could beat the odds.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bass thumped through the walls of Jonah’s makeshift studio, the converted attic of his parents’ house that smelled of weed and vape pen flavors. Royce was convinced that Jonah’s parents could hear the music or smell the weed, but Jonah had assured him that, even if they were home, neither was possible.
Royce lounged on a couch that had been referred to as “beat-up,” but was nicer than the couch he’d sat on for years at his mother’s house. Poochie stood in the “booth,” repeatedly fumbling through a track as his friends; Jamarcus, Zay and Antoine stood around Jonah suggesting things for him to change to make the song better.
Malik sat nearby, switching between snickering under his breath at the lyrics and trying his best to ignore it despite sitting in the midst of it all.
Royce’s phone buzzed on his knee. He flipped it over to see Alix’s name on the screen, the latest in a long line of texts the two of them had been exchanging.
’Which of these you like better?’
The message was accompanied by pictures of Alix in two different dresses she was choosing between for a cousin’s upcoming wedding.
’Is the cousin related to your mom or Marc?’
’Stop calling him Marc like y’all on a first name basis. “your dad” works. But it’s his niece.’
’Then I’d say not to wear that green dress because if your white ass go to a Black wedding with all your titties out, they’re going to be talking about you for weeks.’
’Glad you noticed’, she replied with a wink emoji.
Malik tapped Royce on the shoulder, causing him to quickly flip his phone back face down on his knee.
“Damn, you jumpy. You alright?” Malik asked, a hint of concern on his face.
“Yeah, I’m good. I was just texting my cousins about some family shit back in Houma,” Royce said, lying easily.
Malik eyed him suspiciously for a moment before jabbing his thumb over toward the booth. “This nigga some trash, huh?”
“Bruh, you were the one who decided to stay here. We could’ve dipped when they showed up,” Royce said. “Them niggas could be Kevin Gates and I still wouldn’t sit in here and listen to them play gangster.”
“I just be trying to see if he got any better, but I always be wrong,” Malik said, laughing
Zay looked over his shoulder at Malik and Royce. “What you two bitch niggas over there shoo-shooing and kekeing about?”
“Chill out on who you calling a bitch, bruh,” Royce said.
Zay tapped Jamarcus on the shoulder. “This why I can’t stand coming here. They always got some lame ass niggas here talking behind they hand like some females.”
Jamarcus laughed, shaking his head. “Everyone ain’t built for that life.”
“Y’all ain’t built for either. Not one of y’all ever upped no pole on nobody,” Malik said, waving his dismissively at them. “Then y’all let y’all potna get in the booth talking all this murder, murder, kill, kill shit and he the softest one out of all y’all.”
Jonah paused the music. “Come on, man. We’re just vibing. Be cool.”
The commotion brought Poochie out the booth. He placed the headphones on an end table and stood between his friends and Malik and Royce.
“I ain’t even going to address you, Malik, because I already know you just on some hating ass nigga shit,” Poochie said, pointing to Malik and Royce. “But your boy here don’t know me and he been talking some slick shit everytime I seen him. That’s some fraud ass shit to me.”
Royce leaned back on the couch. “If you lying on your tracks, you lying on your tracks. I ain’t got nothing to do with that.”
“I say we just jump these niggas,” Antoine said.
“I fear God, nigga,” Malik said, standing up.
“Yo, yo, yo,” Jonah said getting in between everyone.
Royce felt his muscles tense. A part of him telling him to get out and smash one of them in the face with some equipment to even out the numbers before the fracas started. But that didn’t silence the niggling voice at the back of his mind.
A minor, petty fight just like this was what led to Romeo’s death.
Shaking his head, Royce stood up and positioned himself between Malik and Poochie. “Aye, my bad, bruh. You’re right. I don’t know you like that. You got some nice flow. I ain’t mean nothing by it.”
Malik gave Royce a confused look as he held out his hand to Poochie to dap up. After a brief hesitation, he did so before turning back to Jonah.
“Run that last beat back,” he said as he walked into the booth.
Royce tapped Malik on the chest. “C’mon, let’s go get something to eat and come back later.”
With one last exchange of heated glares between Malik, Jamarcus, Zay and Antoine, Malik followed Royce out of the door and down the staircase.
“You got us looking like pussies,” Malik said, sucking his teeth.
“Four of them and two of us, one of us got a fucked up leg. If you want to get stomped out by four niggas then feel free to go back up there. Unless you think Jonah was going to jump in to help us.”
“Man, they can’t fight. We could’ve fucked them boys up.”
“I guess we ain’t never gonna know,,” Royce shrugged as he reached the first landing. His phone buzzed in his pocket but he didn’t want to take it out with Malik walking behind him. He stopped and moved out of the way. “Go ahead of me so I ain’t slowing you down. These stairs ain’t no joke.”
Malik shook his head as he passed by Royce. “You talk like you need to get one of them lifts like people get for their mawmaws.”
“Yeah, fuck you, negro,” Royce said, the insult half-hearted as he’d already turned his attention to his phone.
’I’m really starting to think you’re afraid of it, Royce’ Alix’s message read, likely a response to his not immediately responding to her previous text.
’don’t start nothing you not willing to finish’ He sent back before he could catch himself. He cursed under his breath and debated deleting the text, but her response was too fast.
’Bet. Let me know when you’re ready to find out’
Royce was just about to send a response to steer the conversation back toward more platonic conversations when Malik called his name.
“Bruh, you keep zoning out. What kind of pills they got you on?” Malik said from the next landing down.
“Nah, it’s just this family shit,” Royce said, holding up his phone as if it were proof. “Where you trying to get eat?”
“Downtown Seafood?”
“You gonna actually order seafood?”
Malik laughed. “You know those burgers fire.”
Royce shook his head as he followed Malik out of the house, choosing to ignore that text until later.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7859
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Either that nigga Malik gonna care too much or not gonna care at all when he finds out Royce giving it to Alix.
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Soapy
- Posts: 16591
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
Caesar wrote: ↑15 Oct 2024, 14:40Malik tapped Royce on the shoulder, causing him to quickly flip his phone back face down on his knee.
“Damn, you jumpy. You alright?” Malik asked, a hint of concern on his face.
“Yeah, I’m good. I was just texting my cousins about some family shit back in Houma,” Royce said, lying easily.
the prosecution rests, your honor.
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Describing text conversations as "giving it to" is a wild leap, sir.Captain Canada wrote: ↑15 Oct 2024, 17:29Either that nigga Malik gonna care too much or not gonna care at all when he finds out Royce giving it to Alix.
Soapy wrote: ↑16 Oct 2024, 07:33Caesar wrote: ↑15 Oct 2024, 14:40Malik tapped Royce on the shoulder, causing him to quickly flip his phone back face down on his knee.
“Damn, you jumpy. You alright?” Malik asked, a hint of concern on his face.
“Yeah, I’m good. I was just texting my cousins about some family shit back in Houma,” Royce said, lying easily.
the prosecution rests, your honor.
#RoyceDidNothingWrong
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
3d chess
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Night Terrors
The muzzle flash burned white-hot in Royce’s vision, searing itself into his retinas like a brad. The crack of the gunshot tore through the air, drowning out the pound of his heart. He felt the first impact, a sledgehammer blow to his chest that spun him around.
He felt the second and third and fourth. The burning sensation spreading through his body as he fell to the ground. Or, rather, as he watched himself hit the pavement.
He almost seemed to be floating above the events below, multiple gunshots echoing in the night as they unloaded on the body – his body. Blood bloomed across his hoodie, spurting out like stabs under the harsh glare of streetlights. Confusion and horror clouded his mind in equal measure.
The two shooters lowered their weapons and pulled down their hoods to look up at him. Romeo’s face stared back, black spaces where his eyes should’ve been. The two figures raised their hands, pointing an accusatory finger in Royce’s direction.
…
Royce’s eyes snapped open, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he bolted upright in bed. Sweat plastered his shirt to his heaving chest, the phantom pain of bullet wounds throbbing with each rapid heartbeat. His hands frantically searched his body for blood for a moment before he realized it was all in his head.
A new nightmare to add to a long list of others he’d accumulated over the last half year.
The darkness of the room pressed in on him, suffocating. Royce fumbled for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over in his desperation to banish the shadows. Warm light flooded the small space, illuminating the sparsely furnished room that did nothing to quell his racing mind.
Desperate for a distraction, anything to ground him in reality, Royce grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The screen’s harsh glow illuminated his haunted features as he scrolled mindlessly, trying to calm the tremors that wracked his body. His thumb swiped past memes, news headlines and posts from people whose lives seemed to be moving forward while his remained frozen in time.
A post from yesterday caught his eye, stopping his thumb mid-swipe. Britini’ face smiled up at him, but her eyes held an ocean of grief as. The caption beneath read: “First birthday without you. I miss you more than words can say, Romeo. Always and forever.”
Royce’s throat constricted. He tossed the phone back toward the nightstand, but it clattered to the floor. He ran his hands down his face, cursing under his breath.
~~~~~~~~~~
December 2022
The church was packed, a sea of black-clad mourners filling every pew. Friends and family, people from the neighborhood who were still in shock about what had taken place weeks earlier. One of the neighborhood’s brightest stars extinguished in another case of senseless violence that they were all too familiar with.
The family sat on the first pew, feet away from the flower-draped casket at the front of the church. Rashida struggled to contain her emotions as Ma Beulah draped an arm over her daughter, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Royce sat off to the end of the pew in a wheelchair, half his body wrapped in bandages underneath a button-down shirt and pants three sizes too big as he recovered from the multiple surgeries he’d had to remove bullet fragments from his body.
He watched on as people grieved, his own senses dulled by a powerful cocktail of pain medication, the only thing that made sitting up remotely bearable. A nurse hovered behind him, a requirement for his temporary release from the hospital should he need to be stabilized in the event of a medical emergency.
“Romeo Lafitte was a bright light in the community, an example of hope and promise, one extinguished too soon,” the pastor droned on, but the words seemed to come from far away, distorted as if underwater.
“But his dreams were cut short, a young man with all the potential in the world. His story reminds us how fleeting life can be, but he’s now with our Heavenly Father for God had a different plan for him. One we can only try to understand.”
Despite the fogginess of his mind, Royce didn’t miss the way people only shot furtive glances in his direction as they made their way down the family’s pew to pay their respects. Either uncomfortable with his presence or skimming over him as if he were already gone.
He caught snippets of conversation as people filed past.
“Such a tragedy…” “He had so much potential…” “I can’t believe he’s gone…”
No one seemed to notice the living twin, broken and adrift in a sea of grief. Maybe they ignored him on purpose, feeling as though Romeo’s ghost was in that very sanctuary with them.
The crushing loneliness of being surrounded by people mourning someone who was very much the other half of his soul, while his own pain went unacknowledged, threatened to consume him.
Guilt gnawed at him, whispering that it should’ve been him in that box. Romeo was the one with a future, the scholarships, the talent, everything going in the right direction. What did Royce have? A reputation as the “bad” twin.
As the service drew to a close, Royce’s eyes locked with Britni’s as she embraced his mother. She made her way toward him, a mixture of grief and anger on her face. She leaned down next to him.
“You did this to him. It should’ve been you,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion.
He only stared at the casket as she left the church.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat on Rana’s back porch, somewhere he’d spent the majority of the day save for a couple trips to the bathroom. He’d decided that he would skip practice for the day, figuring they wouldn’t miss one waterboy, especially given the lack of effort he put into the job, but even that seemed like more effort than he was willing to put into anything.
His gaze fixed on a point in the distance, unseeing. The day had stretched endlessly before him, seconds crawling by like years. The warm breeze carried the scent of cut grass and distant barbecues, reminders of a normal life that suddenly felt alien to him once again.
He could hear life going on around him in the neighborhood, people enjoying the early days of summer. Children’s laughter drifted over the fences, lawnmowers rumbled and cars passed on the street. The rhythm of everyday life continued despite the dark cloud hanging over Royce’s mood.
As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in the shades of fire, Royce’s thoughts turned darker.
He imagined stepping off the porch, walking out into the street, and just going. Disappearing into the gathering twilight, leaving behind this hollow shell of an existence.
Would anyone even notice he was gone? Or would they just shrug and say, “That’s a shame,” before moving on with their lives.
The chirping of crickets gradually replaced the sounds of the day. Streetlights flickered to life, casting long shadows across the yard. Royce remained motionless, a statue craved from grief and regret. The suffocating humidity of the Louisiana evening air blanketing his face, but he welcomed the discomfort. At least, it was something he could feel besides the constant, gnawing ache of loss.
As the last remnants of daylight faded from the sky, footsteps approached from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and sucked his teeth.
“Fuck off, man.”
“Don’t be a dickhead,” Alix replied, tinged with forced lightness. The porch creaked as she settled beside him. “I’m doing the nice thing and coming check on you since you haven’t been answering any texts, and Malik said you skipped practice today.”
Royce snorted. “Right. I bet they couldn’t do a fucking thing without the motherfucker handing out water and Gatorade.”
“From what I hear, you don’t do that,” she said, a clear attempt at levity.
He glanced sideways at her, taking in her appearance. She wore basketball shorts and a faded t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. It was by far the most casual that he’d ever seen her.
“Why the fuck you really here?” Royce asked, his tone laden with suspicion and barely contained anger. “I ain’t no fucking charity case, you know?”
Alix flinched at his words but held her ground. “Again, don’t be a dickhead. I know you’re not a charity case. Charities are appreciative from time to time. I told you why I’m here. I want to check on you.”
“You don’t even know me like that,” he said, his voice cold. “But you’ve seen me. You checked. Now, fucking go home.”
She didn’t respond, only crossing her arms over her chest, showing no indication that she was going to get up.
Silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken tension. The distant sound of a siren wailing triggered a fresh wave of memories that Royce fought to suppress. He glanced over at her.
“I should be the one in the fucking ground, Alix,” he said, breaking the silence.
“What? Royce, no,” she said.
“Rome had the world at his feet, man. He was getting SEC offers and shit. I know he could’ve gotten to the league. I held him back. If he’d just focused on school, football, maybe his girlfriend, he’d still be here.”
He leaned back on the bench. “That night, when it happened? We got split up. He came back to find me. If I had just kept leading them niggas on a wild goose chase, I might’ve gotten got, but Rome would still be here.”
“I think the reason so many people don’t want me around is because we’re twins, right? Identical and shit,” he said, gesturing angrily to his face. “It’s easier for them to kill both of us than have him be gone and be left with me. I’m a fuck up, man. They got the wrong twin and I can’t blame them. Sometimes, I wish I died instead of him.”
Alix inhaled sharply, and when she spoke, her voice trembled slightly. “When I was eleven, Marc’s nephew Terrance got shot. By another cousin, Isaac. I… I didn’t understand. Marc and my mom had been married long enough by then that we were part of the family and then one of them was just gone.”
Royce turned to look at her. The light from a streetlight on the opposite side of the backyard cast shadows across her face, highlighting the pain etched in the tightness around her eyes.
“What happened?” Royce asked.
Her gaze grew distant. “It was over something stupid. Money, I think. Or drugs. I was too young to get all the details. Besides, they weren’t telling the white folks everything anyway. But I remember the funeral. All the adults crying, trying to explain to the kids why Terrance and Isaac weren’t coming back.”
She paused, collecting herself. “I’d never experienced anything like that personally. I mean, I grew up in Baton Rouge. You hear about it on the news all the time, but it’s always just something you see. I had nightmares about it. I felt guilty like it was something I’d done. Like maybe the one time I said something mean to Isaac made him do it. It was so stupid.”
Royce nodded. “I get that. The guilt. I got this fucking voice in my that keeps saying I made all these mistakes and I should’ve done something. My dad suggested I kill them niggas. He ain’t say it like that, but I knew what he meant. Maybe I should’ve. Romeo would still be here.”
“Sometimes,” he said as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his voice barely audible. “I think about just ending this shit. Finishing what them niggas started.”
Alix’s hand found his, squeezing tightly. “You’re still here for a reason, Royce. There has to be a reason for all this pain.”
“What if there ain’t?” he asked, his voice cracking. “What if it’s just all random bullshit? It’s a whole lot of motherfuckers get gunned down and survive that’s out in the streets shaking fucking cups right now.”
She shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his. “Then you find your own meaning. You got a second chance. Don’t waste that shit.”
The dam finally broke. Royce’s shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked his body. He pulled his hand away from hers, trying to turn away to hide this moment of vulnerability, but Alix wouldn’t let him. She pulled him close, cradling his head against her shoulder as the tears fell.
“I fucking miss him, man. He was all I had,” Royce said, between sobs.
Alix stroked his back, his emotion overwhelming her and causing her own tears to fall silently.
The muzzle flash burned white-hot in Royce’s vision, searing itself into his retinas like a brad. The crack of the gunshot tore through the air, drowning out the pound of his heart. He felt the first impact, a sledgehammer blow to his chest that spun him around.
He felt the second and third and fourth. The burning sensation spreading through his body as he fell to the ground. Or, rather, as he watched himself hit the pavement.
He almost seemed to be floating above the events below, multiple gunshots echoing in the night as they unloaded on the body – his body. Blood bloomed across his hoodie, spurting out like stabs under the harsh glare of streetlights. Confusion and horror clouded his mind in equal measure.
The two shooters lowered their weapons and pulled down their hoods to look up at him. Romeo’s face stared back, black spaces where his eyes should’ve been. The two figures raised their hands, pointing an accusatory finger in Royce’s direction.
…
Royce’s eyes snapped open, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as he bolted upright in bed. Sweat plastered his shirt to his heaving chest, the phantom pain of bullet wounds throbbing with each rapid heartbeat. His hands frantically searched his body for blood for a moment before he realized it was all in his head.
A new nightmare to add to a long list of others he’d accumulated over the last half year.
The darkness of the room pressed in on him, suffocating. Royce fumbled for the bedside lamp, nearly knocking it over in his desperation to banish the shadows. Warm light flooded the small space, illuminating the sparsely furnished room that did nothing to quell his racing mind.
Desperate for a distraction, anything to ground him in reality, Royce grabbed his phone from the nightstand. The screen’s harsh glow illuminated his haunted features as he scrolled mindlessly, trying to calm the tremors that wracked his body. His thumb swiped past memes, news headlines and posts from people whose lives seemed to be moving forward while his remained frozen in time.
A post from yesterday caught his eye, stopping his thumb mid-swipe. Britini’ face smiled up at him, but her eyes held an ocean of grief as. The caption beneath read: “First birthday without you. I miss you more than words can say, Romeo. Always and forever.”
Royce’s throat constricted. He tossed the phone back toward the nightstand, but it clattered to the floor. He ran his hands down his face, cursing under his breath.
~~~~~~~~~~
December 2022
The church was packed, a sea of black-clad mourners filling every pew. Friends and family, people from the neighborhood who were still in shock about what had taken place weeks earlier. One of the neighborhood’s brightest stars extinguished in another case of senseless violence that they were all too familiar with.
The family sat on the first pew, feet away from the flower-draped casket at the front of the church. Rashida struggled to contain her emotions as Ma Beulah draped an arm over her daughter, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.
Royce sat off to the end of the pew in a wheelchair, half his body wrapped in bandages underneath a button-down shirt and pants three sizes too big as he recovered from the multiple surgeries he’d had to remove bullet fragments from his body.
He watched on as people grieved, his own senses dulled by a powerful cocktail of pain medication, the only thing that made sitting up remotely bearable. A nurse hovered behind him, a requirement for his temporary release from the hospital should he need to be stabilized in the event of a medical emergency.
“Romeo Lafitte was a bright light in the community, an example of hope and promise, one extinguished too soon,” the pastor droned on, but the words seemed to come from far away, distorted as if underwater.
“But his dreams were cut short, a young man with all the potential in the world. His story reminds us how fleeting life can be, but he’s now with our Heavenly Father for God had a different plan for him. One we can only try to understand.”
Despite the fogginess of his mind, Royce didn’t miss the way people only shot furtive glances in his direction as they made their way down the family’s pew to pay their respects. Either uncomfortable with his presence or skimming over him as if he were already gone.
He caught snippets of conversation as people filed past.
“Such a tragedy…” “He had so much potential…” “I can’t believe he’s gone…”
No one seemed to notice the living twin, broken and adrift in a sea of grief. Maybe they ignored him on purpose, feeling as though Romeo’s ghost was in that very sanctuary with them.
The crushing loneliness of being surrounded by people mourning someone who was very much the other half of his soul, while his own pain went unacknowledged, threatened to consume him.
Guilt gnawed at him, whispering that it should’ve been him in that box. Romeo was the one with a future, the scholarships, the talent, everything going in the right direction. What did Royce have? A reputation as the “bad” twin.
As the service drew to a close, Royce’s eyes locked with Britni’s as she embraced his mother. She made her way toward him, a mixture of grief and anger on her face. She leaned down next to him.
“You did this to him. It should’ve been you,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion.
He only stared at the casket as she left the church.
~~~~~~~~~~
Royce sat on Rana’s back porch, somewhere he’d spent the majority of the day save for a couple trips to the bathroom. He’d decided that he would skip practice for the day, figuring they wouldn’t miss one waterboy, especially given the lack of effort he put into the job, but even that seemed like more effort than he was willing to put into anything.
His gaze fixed on a point in the distance, unseeing. The day had stretched endlessly before him, seconds crawling by like years. The warm breeze carried the scent of cut grass and distant barbecues, reminders of a normal life that suddenly felt alien to him once again.
He could hear life going on around him in the neighborhood, people enjoying the early days of summer. Children’s laughter drifted over the fences, lawnmowers rumbled and cars passed on the street. The rhythm of everyday life continued despite the dark cloud hanging over Royce’s mood.
As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in the shades of fire, Royce’s thoughts turned darker.
He imagined stepping off the porch, walking out into the street, and just going. Disappearing into the gathering twilight, leaving behind this hollow shell of an existence.
Would anyone even notice he was gone? Or would they just shrug and say, “That’s a shame,” before moving on with their lives.
The chirping of crickets gradually replaced the sounds of the day. Streetlights flickered to life, casting long shadows across the yard. Royce remained motionless, a statue craved from grief and regret. The suffocating humidity of the Louisiana evening air blanketing his face, but he welcomed the discomfort. At least, it was something he could feel besides the constant, gnawing ache of loss.
As the last remnants of daylight faded from the sky, footsteps approached from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and sucked his teeth.
“Fuck off, man.”
“Don’t be a dickhead,” Alix replied, tinged with forced lightness. The porch creaked as she settled beside him. “I’m doing the nice thing and coming check on you since you haven’t been answering any texts, and Malik said you skipped practice today.”
Royce snorted. “Right. I bet they couldn’t do a fucking thing without the motherfucker handing out water and Gatorade.”
“From what I hear, you don’t do that,” she said, a clear attempt at levity.
He glanced sideways at her, taking in her appearance. She wore basketball shorts and a faded t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. It was by far the most casual that he’d ever seen her.
“Why the fuck you really here?” Royce asked, his tone laden with suspicion and barely contained anger. “I ain’t no fucking charity case, you know?”
Alix flinched at his words but held her ground. “Again, don’t be a dickhead. I know you’re not a charity case. Charities are appreciative from time to time. I told you why I’m here. I want to check on you.”
“You don’t even know me like that,” he said, his voice cold. “But you’ve seen me. You checked. Now, fucking go home.”
She didn’t respond, only crossing her arms over her chest, showing no indication that she was going to get up.
Silence stretched between them, charged with unspoken tension. The distant sound of a siren wailing triggered a fresh wave of memories that Royce fought to suppress. He glanced over at her.
“I should be the one in the fucking ground, Alix,” he said, breaking the silence.
“What? Royce, no,” she said.
“Rome had the world at his feet, man. He was getting SEC offers and shit. I know he could’ve gotten to the league. I held him back. If he’d just focused on school, football, maybe his girlfriend, he’d still be here.”
He leaned back on the bench. “That night, when it happened? We got split up. He came back to find me. If I had just kept leading them niggas on a wild goose chase, I might’ve gotten got, but Rome would still be here.”
“I think the reason so many people don’t want me around is because we’re twins, right? Identical and shit,” he said, gesturing angrily to his face. “It’s easier for them to kill both of us than have him be gone and be left with me. I’m a fuck up, man. They got the wrong twin and I can’t blame them. Sometimes, I wish I died instead of him.”
Alix inhaled sharply, and when she spoke, her voice trembled slightly. “When I was eleven, Marc’s nephew Terrance got shot. By another cousin, Isaac. I… I didn’t understand. Marc and my mom had been married long enough by then that we were part of the family and then one of them was just gone.”
Royce turned to look at her. The light from a streetlight on the opposite side of the backyard cast shadows across her face, highlighting the pain etched in the tightness around her eyes.
“What happened?” Royce asked.
Her gaze grew distant. “It was over something stupid. Money, I think. Or drugs. I was too young to get all the details. Besides, they weren’t telling the white folks everything anyway. But I remember the funeral. All the adults crying, trying to explain to the kids why Terrance and Isaac weren’t coming back.”
She paused, collecting herself. “I’d never experienced anything like that personally. I mean, I grew up in Baton Rouge. You hear about it on the news all the time, but it’s always just something you see. I had nightmares about it. I felt guilty like it was something I’d done. Like maybe the one time I said something mean to Isaac made him do it. It was so stupid.”
Royce nodded. “I get that. The guilt. I got this fucking voice in my that keeps saying I made all these mistakes and I should’ve done something. My dad suggested I kill them niggas. He ain’t say it like that, but I knew what he meant. Maybe I should’ve. Romeo would still be here.”
“Sometimes,” he said as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his voice barely audible. “I think about just ending this shit. Finishing what them niggas started.”
Alix’s hand found his, squeezing tightly. “You’re still here for a reason, Royce. There has to be a reason for all this pain.”
“What if there ain’t?” he asked, his voice cracking. “What if it’s just all random bullshit? It’s a whole lot of motherfuckers get gunned down and survive that’s out in the streets shaking fucking cups right now.”
She shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his. “Then you find your own meaning. You got a second chance. Don’t waste that shit.”
The dam finally broke. Royce’s shoulders shook as silent sobs wracked his body. He pulled his hand away from hers, trying to turn away to hide this moment of vulnerability, but Alix wouldn’t let him. She pulled him close, cradling his head against her shoulder as the tears fell.
“I fucking miss him, man. He was all I had,” Royce said, between sobs.
Alix stroked his back, his emotion overwhelming her and causing her own tears to fall silently.
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Only Chance
“I wasn’t in that bitch but for two or three minutes before I hear the keys jingling in the door,” Malik said, regaling Royce, Justin and Dru of his adventures the night before. “Here come her crackhead ass uncle talking about ‘Hey, one of y’all got some gars?’ Like no, nigga, I ain’t got no fucking gars!”
Royce offered a half-hearted laugh alongside Justin and Dru. His mind was still a foggy mess from his day spent reliving the days and weeks after Romeo’s death. His talk with Alix only complicated matters. She’d texted him a few times already, but he left them all unread.
“I tried to tell you not to go up there and fuck with that girl. You was probably the fourth or fifth nigga up there that day. That’s why the uncle didn’t pay no mind to you,” Justin said, laughing as Malik shoved him.
“That boy gonna be burning by the end of the week,” Dru added.
Malik shook his head, turning to Royce. “Don’t let these niggas fool you. Monique fine as hell even if you gotta step over a few dirty diapers to get into her crib.”
“Them fourteen kids why you don’t need to go, bruh,” Justin said to Royce. “That bitch experienced, you hear me?”
“She only got one,” Malik said.
“One is one too many!” Dru fired back.
“That’s how you know the pussy good though.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Royce said, offering his first thoughts on the conversation. “That just mean some nigga bust in her. Trash pussy or not.”
“Royce!” Coach Cunningham’s voice cut through the low din of voices on the field. “Come here.”
Royce glanced at Malik, who only shrugged, before making his way out onto the field where Coach Cunningham stood with Coach Vaughn.
The greying man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his weathered face set in a scowl under a pair of sunglasses as he watched Royce approach. Coach Vaughn’s expression was a mix of disappointment and frustration.
Royce came to a stop in front of the two coaches, taking in the grim atmosphere, unsure of what could create the tension in the air.
“Nice of you to join us today, Royce,” Coach Cunningham said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You got an excuse for why you skipped practice yesterday? Yesterday would’ve been a good time for that, but I’m all ears today.”
“I had some stuff come up. Family stuff,” Royce said.
“You kids keep those cellphones glued to your hand until it’s time to use it to let someone know about something,” the coach said.
Royce shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I ain’t doing nothing but handing out water over there. It’s not like you were missing someone out on the field.”
Coach Cunningham looked at Royce, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. Coach Vaughn stepped forward, anger on his face.
“Everyone on this team has a damn role to play, son. Everyone on this team has to show up for their brothers whether that’s the quarterback or a manager,” Vaughn said, jabbing Royce in the chest with his finger to punctuate the words. “If you think you can’t pull your weight for this team then you can take your ass home and not come back.”
Royce opened his mouth to respond, but Coach Cunningham cut him off. “This isn’t about what you do or don’t do. It’s about culture. It’s about commitment. I don’t know what you’re used to, but this is a championship-winning culture. Part of that culture is that everyone shows up everyday and carries that pail because playing in December is our only goal. Every. Single. Day.”
The words hit Royce unexpectedly hard given the mental state he was in. He raised his hands up in surrender.
“My bad. I didn’t think—”
“That’s the damn problem with you boys,” Coach Vaughn said. “Y’all don’t think until it’s too late to be thinking. When people are counting on you to be somewhere, you need to be there or have a damn good excuse.”
“I told you when you started, son,” Coach Cunningham said. “You’re only going to get one chance to make something out of this. Don’t blow it.”
Royce nodded. “So, what I gotta do? I mean, I know what happens when a player fu – messes up, but I’m a manager.”
“The band probably needs someone to reline their field,” Vaughn said to Coach Cunningham.
On the opposite side of the field, the other assistant coaches called the team back onto the field to line up for sprint drills.
Royce looked over at the players taking their places and pointed toward them. “I can’t just run some laps or something?”
“Have you been cleared to run?” Coach Vaughn asked.
Royce only shrugged.
“We’ll figure something out then.”
Royce was already shaking his head, jogging toward the other side of the field. Coach Vaughn went to call Royce back, but Coach Cunningham placed a hand on his chest and shook his head, the assistant understanding.
A murmur ran through the assembled players. Royce, in his polo shirt and khaki shorts, looked comically out of place as he stood in the group. He’d been working with the team long enough that everyone knew his story.
Coach Foster, another assistant, glanced in Coach Cunningham’s direction. Cunnigham gave a slight nod and Coach Foster brought his whistle to his lips.
“On the line!” Foster shouted before putting the whistle in his mouth.
Royce took his place on the line next to the players, glancing down at his shoes, half a mind to take them off to not crease them but it was too late to do so now.
The whistle blew and the players took off. Royce felt the slight dull of pain he’d gotten used to when running from the first stride, but he kept pushing through. The sound of cleats hitting turf to either side of him soothing the storm that was in his mind.
The players reached the 10-yard line and turned back to the goal, rested, ran to the 20 and back. They continued until they were running to the 50-yard line and back, Royce keeping up with them stride-for-stride.
Royce crossed the goalline for the last time, glancing back to see the linemen bringing up the rear. He leaned bent over, sucking in air, his chest heaving. His legs felt like jelly and he could feel the pain throbbing through his shin. His polo was drenched in sweat.
A whistle blew and the players went to the sideline to get water. Royce trudged behind them, his legs protesting with each step. He fell to the bench when he finally made it to one, stretching his legs out before him.
Malik handed him a cup of water, a smile on his face. “Nigga, you slow.”
“Slow like ya mama, nigga,” Royce said, still out of breath, as he took the cup and gulped down the water.
Still standing on the opposite side of the field, Coach Vaughn held up a stopwatch for Coach Cunningham to glance at.
“He’d probably be in the 4.7 range if he was wearing cleats and pads,” Coach Vaughn said, nodding in Royce’s direction.
Coach Cunningham nodded as he started walking toward the middle of the field where the rest of the assistants were congregating, preparing for the next set of drills as they continued to prepare for the season.
“I wasn’t in that bitch but for two or three minutes before I hear the keys jingling in the door,” Malik said, regaling Royce, Justin and Dru of his adventures the night before. “Here come her crackhead ass uncle talking about ‘Hey, one of y’all got some gars?’ Like no, nigga, I ain’t got no fucking gars!”
Royce offered a half-hearted laugh alongside Justin and Dru. His mind was still a foggy mess from his day spent reliving the days and weeks after Romeo’s death. His talk with Alix only complicated matters. She’d texted him a few times already, but he left them all unread.
“I tried to tell you not to go up there and fuck with that girl. You was probably the fourth or fifth nigga up there that day. That’s why the uncle didn’t pay no mind to you,” Justin said, laughing as Malik shoved him.
“That boy gonna be burning by the end of the week,” Dru added.
Malik shook his head, turning to Royce. “Don’t let these niggas fool you. Monique fine as hell even if you gotta step over a few dirty diapers to get into her crib.”
“Them fourteen kids why you don’t need to go, bruh,” Justin said to Royce. “That bitch experienced, you hear me?”
“She only got one,” Malik said.
“One is one too many!” Dru fired back.
“That’s how you know the pussy good though.”
“I don’t think that’s how that works,” Royce said, offering his first thoughts on the conversation. “That just mean some nigga bust in her. Trash pussy or not.”
“Royce!” Coach Cunningham’s voice cut through the low din of voices on the field. “Come here.”
Royce glanced at Malik, who only shrugged, before making his way out onto the field where Coach Cunningham stood with Coach Vaughn.
The greying man stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his weathered face set in a scowl under a pair of sunglasses as he watched Royce approach. Coach Vaughn’s expression was a mix of disappointment and frustration.
Royce came to a stop in front of the two coaches, taking in the grim atmosphere, unsure of what could create the tension in the air.
“Nice of you to join us today, Royce,” Coach Cunningham said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You got an excuse for why you skipped practice yesterday? Yesterday would’ve been a good time for that, but I’m all ears today.”
“I had some stuff come up. Family stuff,” Royce said.
“You kids keep those cellphones glued to your hand until it’s time to use it to let someone know about something,” the coach said.
Royce shrugged. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. I ain’t doing nothing but handing out water over there. It’s not like you were missing someone out on the field.”
Coach Cunningham looked at Royce, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. Coach Vaughn stepped forward, anger on his face.
“Everyone on this team has a damn role to play, son. Everyone on this team has to show up for their brothers whether that’s the quarterback or a manager,” Vaughn said, jabbing Royce in the chest with his finger to punctuate the words. “If you think you can’t pull your weight for this team then you can take your ass home and not come back.”
Royce opened his mouth to respond, but Coach Cunningham cut him off. “This isn’t about what you do or don’t do. It’s about culture. It’s about commitment. I don’t know what you’re used to, but this is a championship-winning culture. Part of that culture is that everyone shows up everyday and carries that pail because playing in December is our only goal. Every. Single. Day.”
The words hit Royce unexpectedly hard given the mental state he was in. He raised his hands up in surrender.
“My bad. I didn’t think—”
“That’s the damn problem with you boys,” Coach Vaughn said. “Y’all don’t think until it’s too late to be thinking. When people are counting on you to be somewhere, you need to be there or have a damn good excuse.”
“I told you when you started, son,” Coach Cunningham said. “You’re only going to get one chance to make something out of this. Don’t blow it.”
Royce nodded. “So, what I gotta do? I mean, I know what happens when a player fu – messes up, but I’m a manager.”
“The band probably needs someone to reline their field,” Vaughn said to Coach Cunningham.
On the opposite side of the field, the other assistant coaches called the team back onto the field to line up for sprint drills.
Royce looked over at the players taking their places and pointed toward them. “I can’t just run some laps or something?”
“Have you been cleared to run?” Coach Vaughn asked.
Royce only shrugged.
“We’ll figure something out then.”
Royce was already shaking his head, jogging toward the other side of the field. Coach Vaughn went to call Royce back, but Coach Cunningham placed a hand on his chest and shook his head, the assistant understanding.
A murmur ran through the assembled players. Royce, in his polo shirt and khaki shorts, looked comically out of place as he stood in the group. He’d been working with the team long enough that everyone knew his story.
Coach Foster, another assistant, glanced in Coach Cunningham’s direction. Cunnigham gave a slight nod and Coach Foster brought his whistle to his lips.
“On the line!” Foster shouted before putting the whistle in his mouth.
Royce took his place on the line next to the players, glancing down at his shoes, half a mind to take them off to not crease them but it was too late to do so now.
The whistle blew and the players took off. Royce felt the slight dull of pain he’d gotten used to when running from the first stride, but he kept pushing through. The sound of cleats hitting turf to either side of him soothing the storm that was in his mind.
The players reached the 10-yard line and turned back to the goal, rested, ran to the 20 and back. They continued until they were running to the 50-yard line and back, Royce keeping up with them stride-for-stride.
Royce crossed the goalline for the last time, glancing back to see the linemen bringing up the rear. He leaned bent over, sucking in air, his chest heaving. His legs felt like jelly and he could feel the pain throbbing through his shin. His polo was drenched in sweat.
A whistle blew and the players went to the sideline to get water. Royce trudged behind them, his legs protesting with each step. He fell to the bench when he finally made it to one, stretching his legs out before him.
Malik handed him a cup of water, a smile on his face. “Nigga, you slow.”
“Slow like ya mama, nigga,” Royce said, still out of breath, as he took the cup and gulped down the water.
Still standing on the opposite side of the field, Coach Vaughn held up a stopwatch for Coach Cunningham to glance at.
“He’d probably be in the 4.7 range if he was wearing cleats and pads,” Coach Vaughn said, nodding in Royce’s direction.
Coach Cunningham nodded as he started walking toward the middle of the field where the rest of the assistants were congregating, preparing for the next set of drills as they continued to prepare for the season.
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djp73
- Posts: 13184
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
4.7 no joke
-
Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 16847
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
