Kind of Man
The plastic chair under Royce creaked as he shifted, hands tucked into the pocket of his LSU hoodie. The visitation room at Dixon smelled like cheap disinfectant and day-old sweat, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes even after you left. It was too bright. Too still. Too quiet for a place that held so much tension behind steel doors and reinforced glass.
Across from him sat his father, arms crossed, expression unreadable. He hadn’t said much since sitting down—just stared, the way he always did. Like he was measuring something Royce hadn’t figured out yet.
“Three weeks,” Kevon finally said, his voice rough like gravel and smoke.
Royce didn’t flinch. “Been busy.”
Kevon leaned forward, elbows on the table. “With what?”
“Football. School. Got spring ball starting soon. New schedule.”
“Uh-huh.” Kevon grunted, unimpressed. “You think I don’t know what it look like when somebody ducking calls?”
Royce shrugged. “It wasn’t personal.”
“Everything’s personal when it come to family.”
Royce gave a humorless laugh, looking down at his hands. “You sure? ’Cause it don’t always feel like that coming from y’all.”
Kevon’s eyes narrowed, the tired in them replaced with something sharper. “You on that shit now? That ‘poor me’ act? You grown now, right? Got your name in headlines. Folks chanting it on Saturdays like it mean something. That make you too good to check in?”
Royce exhaled slowly. “I ain’t say all that.”
Kevon sat back. “You ain’t have to.”
Silence thickened between them. In the far corner, another inmate laughed behind the glass of a different visitation booth, his voice echoing too loud for the mood at their table.
Kevon tapped his fingers once on the metal. “I’m tired of chasing you to turn you into a man, Royce. You getting too old for this shit.”
Royce’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed cool. “Nobody asked you to chase me.”
“That’s the problem.” Kevon stood up suddenly, the chair scraping across the concrete. “You act like this relationship optional. Like you can pick it up when it fits your schedule.”
Royce stayed seated. “You done?”
Kevon ignored that. “You running out of time, boy. One day, you keep ignoring calls, keep choosing distance over duty, they not gon’ see it as you being busy. They gon’ call it what it is.”
Royce looked up now, jaw set. “Which is what?”
“Turning your back.”
Kevon said it plain. Not angry. Just tired. Like the words had been sitting in his chest too long and came out heavy now that he’d finally let them go.
He started to turn, then paused and looked back over his shoulder. “Reg got Hep C.”
Royce blinked once, then sat still. “Okay.”
“Probably got some other shit too. Nigga looked half-dead last time I seen him.”
“Reg been a junkie since I was in pull-ups,” Royce said. “That’s not news.”
Kevon chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Still your brother.”
“And if he OD tomorrow, that wouldn’t make him no angel,” Royce said, voice quiet but sharp. “He made his choices.”
Kevon looked at him for a long time, the smirk fading. “And you making yours.”
He let that hang before walking to the door. The guard buzzed it open.
“You keep this up,” Kevon said without looking back, “and you gon’ be the only Lafitte left anybody remembers. And not in a good way.”
The door clanged shut behind him.
Royce didn’t move. Just sat there, the silence of the room closing in again, brighter than before, colder.
He didn’t feel guilt.
But he did feel the distance.
And for the first time, he wondered how much longer he’d be able to say he hadn’t turned his back on anyone—before it became the truth.
~~~~~~~~~~
The road between Jackson and Baton Rouge blurred through Royce’s windshield, a stretch of dull-gray asphalt cutting through mossy oaks and rusted-out gas stations. The kind of drive that made your thoughts louder than the hum of the tires beneath you. Royce sat low in his seat, elbow crooked against the window, hoodie pulled halfway over his head. The sun hung just high enough to be annoying, splashing hard light across his dashboard.
His phone buzzed in the center console.
Chance Delpit.
Royce hesitated a second, then swiped to answer. “Yo.”
“Where’re you at?”
“Halfway between nowhere and the bridge.”
Delpit chuckled. “Perfect. Take a detour. You know Baker?”
Royce frowned. “Yeah, I’m driving that way now.”
“Good. I’ll send you a pin. Just a few minutes of your time.”
Royce sighed, glancing at the time. “You selling life insurance or something?”
“I’m offering perspective,” Delpit said smoothly, then hung up before Royce could crack a joke.
The pin dropped into his texts thirty seconds later. Royce tapped it. Groaned. Then hit the blinker and veered off the route back to campus.
…
Fifteen minutes later, Royce eased his car onto the shoulder of a two-lane road. The land around him stretched wide and low, a patchwork of ditches and weeds, bordered by trees that hadn’t yet decided if it was spring. A crooked wooden post stuck out of the brush with a faded red-and-white sign tacked to it: For Sale – Land Only.
Chance Delpit stood beside it in a blazer and dark jeans, his dress shoes looking wildly out of place in the soft mud. The sun caught the silver flecks in his beard as he turned toward Royce’s car. He lifted a hand in greeting like he was waiting on a friend instead of setting up a pitch.
Royce stepped out of the car, letting the door shut with a lazy push. “You got me out here in Deliverance,” he said, scanning the field.
Delpit smiled. “Appreciate you coming.”
Royce looked around. “Ain’t shit out here.”
“That’s the point.”
Delpit took a few steps out into the grass, motioning for Royce to follow. Royce glanced down at his shoes, shook his head, and trailed behind him anyway.
“You know what this is?” Delpit asked, gesturing around.
“Swamp,” Royce answered flatly.
Delpit grinned. “Close. It’s land. Cheap land. Unclaimed future. Not that far from downtown Baton Rouge. Give it ten years, this’ll be subdivisions and Starbucks.”
“People probably been saying that shit forever and still ain’t shit out here but mosquitoes and single mothers,” Royce muttered.
Delpit turned to him. “And that’s exactly when you buy. See, Black folks always show up late. We want to move in after the Whole Foods, after the charter schools, after the city puts in sidewalks and bike lanes. But by then, the price done tripled and we’re renting from the same people who bought it when it was still a ditch.”
Royce looked across the field again. He tried to picture a cul-de-sac or a business park. It still just looked like soggy grass and forgotten promise.
“You want me to buy it or some shit?” he asked, skeptical.
“I want you to start thinking about what you build. Not just what you ball for.”
Royce didn’t say anything. Delpit let the silence hang, eyes on the horizon.
“You ever heard of the Freeman family in Georgia?” Delpit asked.
Royce shook his head.
“Black family. Owned land since Reconstruction. Damn near lost it to taxes in the '80s but held on. Now that land’s worth millions. And their grandkids? They ain’t clocking in at nobody’s job. They managing their own shit.”
Royce folded his arms. “Aight. But I ain’t trying to be a farmer.”
Delpit chuckled. “Neither were they. They just understood that land’s the one thing they ain’t making more of. And in the South? Black men don’t get handed keys. We got to take ‘em.”
Royce looked down at the mud curling over the toes of his sneakers. The air smelled like rain hadn’t come yet, but it was thinking about it.
“Feels like a long way from playing ball, man,” he said quietly.
“That’s because playing ball ain’t the end,” Delpit replied. “It’s the beginning. You keep chasing checks and cameras, that’s all you’ll ever be. But you plant roots now? You don’t just play the game. You own the field.”
Royce didn’t reply.
Delpit looked over at him, his voice softer now. “What kind of man you trying to be, Royce?”
Royce’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t speak.
Delpit nodded once, like that was enough for now. “Alright. Go ahead and get back to your world. Just wanted you to see a bit of mine.”
As Royce turned back toward his car, the mud sucking slightly at his heels, he glanced over his shoulder at the empty land one last time.
Still looked like swamp.
But now, maybe, it looked like something else too.
Dying to Live
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 7995
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Though Royce has his issues, Kevon delusional to think its his responsibility to think its his mess to clean up. Everybody grown here 
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
about time yall acknowledge Royce is traumatizedCaptain Canada wrote: ↑13 Apr 2025, 22:02Though Royce has his issues, Kevon delusional to think its his responsibility to think its his mess to clean up. Everybody grown here
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Rip the Training Wheels Off
The grind of spring ball was starting to show—grass-stained socks, bruised biceps, and the sting of Louisiana heat that clung to your skin like punishment. But for Royce, it was the first time in a long time that pain felt like purpose.
He stood at the edge of LSU’s practice field, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat beading at his temples. Coach Lupoi was wrapping up final notes, voice carrying over the sound of players cracking jokes and stretching out. Royce shifted his weight, eyes still scanning the linebackers group.
He caught Gio messing around with one of the tackling dummies, jabbing it with two fingers like he was trying to instigate a fight.
“G.K.,” Royce barked, “that dummy’s gonna hit harder than you if you keep fuckin’ around.”
The other guys laughed, but Gio straightened up, grinning. “Damn, bruh. You in your coach bag now?”
Royce didn’t smile. “I’m in my ‘don’t lose games in March’ bag.”
That earned a louder laugh, and even Lupoi cracked a grin before motioning for the group to bring it in. As the team broke down for the day, slapping pads and grabbing water, Royce pulled aside a couple of younger backers—Jay and Casey—who’d been dragging on pursuit drills all afternoon.
“You gotta trust the call,” he told them. “Y’all thinking too much out there. Just read your key and go.”
Jay nodded, sheepish. Casey looked at the ground.
Royce slapped the younger linebacker on the helmet, not hard but not soft either. “You good. Just clean it up. You play like this when the lights on? It’s your spot to lose.”
They both nodded, and as they jogged off, Eric sidled up next to Royce, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Who the hell gave you a whistle and a clipboard?” he joked.
Royce snorted. “Shit, might need both the way y’all moving when I ain’t talking.”
Eric raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying. You been moving like a vet all camp.”
Royce shrugged. “Fuck I am, nigga?”
“And what you expect from yourself?” Eric asked, serious now.
Royce looked out toward the stadium, eyes narrowing. “More.”
They walked toward the locker room in silence.
…
The tunnel out of Tiger Stadium was shaded, cool, the kind of corridor where cleats echoed loud against concrete and conversation fell to murmurs. Royce pulled off his jacket as he stepped into the light outside, tossing it over his shoulder. Sweat clung to his brow. His bag was heavier than usual, filled with tape, gloves, a water jug he hadn’t touched.
As he rounded the exit toward the back lot, he spotted her.
Shayla.
Sitting on a bench just past the Tiger statue, close enough to the shadow of the stadium that she could’ve disappeared if you weren’t looking hard enough. Her legs were crossed, hoodie tied around her waist, phone in her hand but eyes unfocused.
The second she saw him, she stood.
Started to walk off, quick.
Royce squinted into the sun. “Shayla.”
She didn’t stop.
“Stop,” he said, louder now.
She froze halfway across the lot, back still to him. Then turned slowly.
Royce jogged a few steps to close the distance. His face still held the edge of practice—stern, guarded. “You following me?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t agree to help me yet.”
Royce blinked. “Help you with what?”
She inhaled, then exhaled through her nose like she was letting something go. And then, flatly:
“Do you wanna fuck?”
His face didn’t change at first. It was like the words hadn’t landed right. He tilted his head slightly.
“What?”
“You heard me,” she said, her tone clipped but not rushed. “You scared of pussy now or something?”
Royce shifted his weight. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not here to talk,” she said. “I’m asking you if you want to fuck. You ain’t never turned me down before but if not, I’ll leave.”
There wasn’t anger in her voice, not exactly. Just... urgency. Like she needed something simple in a world that hadn’t offered her much of it lately.
Royce scratched the back of his neck, confused, but not cold. “You trying to get a favor out of me or something?”
“No,” Shayla said. “It’s just a question.”
Her voice cracked just slightly at the end, and that was the first time Royce really looked at her.
The tightness in her shoulders. The slight shake in her hand when she tucked hair behind her ear. The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes now.
He took a breath.
“I got something to do,” he said, softer now. “You wanna talk, text me later.”
She nodded once. Didn’t say another word. Just turned and walked down the edge of the lot, each footstep sounding smaller than the last.
Royce stood there, jaw tight.
He’d been in situations like that before—plenty. Casual. Simple. No strings. But this didn’t feel like those. This wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about him.
It was about something broken in her that she didn’t want to fix.
And a part of him—maybe the old part—wanted to help.
But that part had let too many people in already. And not all of them had walked out alive.
He adjusted the strap on his bag and turned toward the parking lot, the weight of spring ball, captains’ meetings, NIL deals, and broken people all pressing against his shoulders.
The season was coming.
And it wouldn’t wait for anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The mic wobbled just slightly when Arianna stepped up to it.
The room inside the old coffeehouse-turned-art-space in downtown Lafayette buzzed with soft conversation, clinking cups, and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. Edison bulbs hung low from the exposed beams, casting pools of amber light across the wooden stage. Someone in the back laughed. Another whispered, “she look nervous.”
Arianna heard it. She didn’t react.
Her hands were still slightly damp, fingertips brushing the creased index cards she’d folded and unfolded half a dozen times since arriving. Her curls were pulled back in a loose puff, her hoops catching the warm light as she adjusted the mic just a bit lower. She didn’t want to speak over it. She wanted to speak through it.
A short exhale.
Then she began.
“You ever try to hold in grief?
Fold it up like a fitted sheet
and still never quite get the corners right?”
A hush fell across the crowd. Not out of politeness. But something quieter than that.
Attention.
“Ever smile so wide your cheeks burn
but your ribs still ache
from the silence?”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Purposeful. Each line landed like she was letting go of something. Like each word was a match she struck and dropped behind her as she walked forward.
“They say healing ain’t linear
but mine looks like scribbles in a kid’s notebook
like phone numbers I don’t call anymore
like his name written and rewritten
in the margins of things that had nothing to do with him.”
A pause.
Then—
“My cousin died in the street.
And the street didn’t even flinch.
It just swallowed the blood
and kept on moving.”
There was a shift in the room then. Chairs stopped squeaking. Phones were forgotten. All that existed were her words and the space between them.
“I got family that left,
and family that stayed,
and family that don’t call unless somebody bleeding or pregnant or locked up.
I got love I never said
and guilt I never earned
and rage like a record scratch
underneath a gospel song.”
Her voice caught slightly—but she pushed through. Let the air fill with the raw edges she’d kept buried for years.
“But I’m here.
Ain’t that something?
All this weight and I’m still here.
Still rising like steam
from pots too full of memory and rice and survival.”
When she finished, the mic buzzed in the silence. Just for a second. Long enough for her to feel how much she'd just released.
Then—applause.
Not polite claps, not that kind of academic approval that said “good job.” This was full. Real. People whooped. Snapped. One woman near the front wiped her eyes.
Arianna smiled, small and crooked, the kind that comes when you surprise even yourself. She gave a slight bow and stepped off the stage, her hands no longer shaking.
Back at her seat, she sat down slow. Her chest was tight—not from fear, but from something that felt new. Clean. Like breath after a cry.
“You killed that,” the girl next to her whispered, leaning over. “That was real.”
“Thank you,” Arianna said softly. Her throat still felt raw from it all.
As the next poet approached the mic, Arianna leaned back in her seat, watching the flicker of light across the brick walls, the scattered notebooks, the strangers who had suddenly become witnesses to something sacred.
She didn’t know if it was healing, not completely. Not yet.
But it was something.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bathroom light was too bright, harsh against the cold tile and even harsher against Toni’s reflection. She leaned in close to the mirror, pressing her fingertip against the purple bloom just below her right eye. The concealer stick she held had been worn down to the nub, plastic casing pushing past the edge of the waxy makeup. She twisted it one last time, praying for enough to do the job.
Tap. Tap. Blend.
The bruise was faint now. Mostly green around the edges. But she saw it, even if no one else would. Even if Deshawn swore up and down that it didn’t look that bad. Even if he hadn’t said sorry.
Not really.
The bathroom door creaked open behind her. She didn’t flinch. She just kept dabbing, like his presence was routine.
Deshawn leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “You still getting ready?”
“I just finished my hair,” Toni said, not turning to look at him. Her voice stayed even.
“You wearing that?”
She looked up at her reflection again, then down at the dress on the hanger by the door. A long-sleeved olive green number she’d picked out days ago. It hit her knees and fit close at the waist, but loose in the sleeves. Modest, but pretty.
“I thought it looked nice,” she said.
Deshawn sucked his teeth. “It make you look wide.”
Toni blinked slowly at the mirror. “Okay.”
“You should wear the black one,” he continued. “The short one.”
“That’s more for going out,” she said, reaching for her brush, pretending to be unbothered.
“We are going out.”
“Not like that.”
“Don’t argue with me, Toni.”
Her hand froze on the brush.
He stepped into the bathroom now, behind her, his body crowding hers. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“I just think you should show a little more appreciation,” Deshawn said. His voice had dropped, softer now. “I take care of you. I don’t ask for much. Just wear the dress I like.”
Toni stared at her reflection. She didn't look like herself. She looked like someone waiting for permission to speak.
“Alright,” she whispered, setting the brush down. “I’ll change.”
Deshawn smiled and kissed her shoulder, like the conversation had been sweet, like he hadn’t just unspokenly erased her choice.
“I’m gonna be outside,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Hurry up though.”
The moment he left the room, Toni shut the door and sat down on the closed toilet lid. Her shoulders collapsed, hands resting in her lap. She let herself breathe—shallow, quiet, like she didn’t want to wake something lurking nearby.
Her eyes drifted to the black dress hanging in the back of the closet. The one he liked. The one she wore when he wanted to show her off like a trophy he didn’t know how to take care of.
She stood slowly and undressed with care, folding the olive dress and setting it on the counter like it needed comfort. Then, reluctantly, she stepped into the black one.
It clung tighter than she liked.
It felt like a costume.
But when she looked in the mirror, she smiled. Just enough to pass.
By the time she stepped out the door, Deshawn was already in the car, seat reclined, music playing low. He didn’t look up when she opened the passenger door.
But he nodded once.
“Better,” he said.
She nodded too. Just once. Just enough.
And as they pulled away from the curb, her fingers pressed into the fabric at her thigh like she could smooth the shame out of it.
The grind of spring ball was starting to show—grass-stained socks, bruised biceps, and the sting of Louisiana heat that clung to your skin like punishment. But for Royce, it was the first time in a long time that pain felt like purpose.
He stood at the edge of LSU’s practice field, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat beading at his temples. Coach Lupoi was wrapping up final notes, voice carrying over the sound of players cracking jokes and stretching out. Royce shifted his weight, eyes still scanning the linebackers group.
He caught Gio messing around with one of the tackling dummies, jabbing it with two fingers like he was trying to instigate a fight.
“G.K.,” Royce barked, “that dummy’s gonna hit harder than you if you keep fuckin’ around.”
The other guys laughed, but Gio straightened up, grinning. “Damn, bruh. You in your coach bag now?”
Royce didn’t smile. “I’m in my ‘don’t lose games in March’ bag.”
That earned a louder laugh, and even Lupoi cracked a grin before motioning for the group to bring it in. As the team broke down for the day, slapping pads and grabbing water, Royce pulled aside a couple of younger backers—Jay and Casey—who’d been dragging on pursuit drills all afternoon.
“You gotta trust the call,” he told them. “Y’all thinking too much out there. Just read your key and go.”
Jay nodded, sheepish. Casey looked at the ground.
Royce slapped the younger linebacker on the helmet, not hard but not soft either. “You good. Just clean it up. You play like this when the lights on? It’s your spot to lose.”
They both nodded, and as they jogged off, Eric sidled up next to Royce, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Who the hell gave you a whistle and a clipboard?” he joked.
Royce snorted. “Shit, might need both the way y’all moving when I ain’t talking.”
Eric raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying. You been moving like a vet all camp.”
Royce shrugged. “Fuck I am, nigga?”
“And what you expect from yourself?” Eric asked, serious now.
Royce looked out toward the stadium, eyes narrowing. “More.”
They walked toward the locker room in silence.
…
The tunnel out of Tiger Stadium was shaded, cool, the kind of corridor where cleats echoed loud against concrete and conversation fell to murmurs. Royce pulled off his jacket as he stepped into the light outside, tossing it over his shoulder. Sweat clung to his brow. His bag was heavier than usual, filled with tape, gloves, a water jug he hadn’t touched.
As he rounded the exit toward the back lot, he spotted her.
Shayla.
Sitting on a bench just past the Tiger statue, close enough to the shadow of the stadium that she could’ve disappeared if you weren’t looking hard enough. Her legs were crossed, hoodie tied around her waist, phone in her hand but eyes unfocused.
The second she saw him, she stood.
Started to walk off, quick.
Royce squinted into the sun. “Shayla.”
She didn’t stop.
“Stop,” he said, louder now.
She froze halfway across the lot, back still to him. Then turned slowly.
Royce jogged a few steps to close the distance. His face still held the edge of practice—stern, guarded. “You following me?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t agree to help me yet.”
Royce blinked. “Help you with what?”
She inhaled, then exhaled through her nose like she was letting something go. And then, flatly:
“Do you wanna fuck?”
His face didn’t change at first. It was like the words hadn’t landed right. He tilted his head slightly.
“What?”
“You heard me,” she said, her tone clipped but not rushed. “You scared of pussy now or something?”
Royce shifted his weight. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m not here to talk,” she said. “I’m asking you if you want to fuck. You ain’t never turned me down before but if not, I’ll leave.”
There wasn’t anger in her voice, not exactly. Just... urgency. Like she needed something simple in a world that hadn’t offered her much of it lately.
Royce scratched the back of his neck, confused, but not cold. “You trying to get a favor out of me or something?”
“No,” Shayla said. “It’s just a question.”
Her voice cracked just slightly at the end, and that was the first time Royce really looked at her.
The tightness in her shoulders. The slight shake in her hand when she tucked hair behind her ear. The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes now.
He took a breath.
“I got something to do,” he said, softer now. “You wanna talk, text me later.”
She nodded once. Didn’t say another word. Just turned and walked down the edge of the lot, each footstep sounding smaller than the last.
Royce stood there, jaw tight.
He’d been in situations like that before—plenty. Casual. Simple. No strings. But this didn’t feel like those. This wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about him.
It was about something broken in her that she didn’t want to fix.
And a part of him—maybe the old part—wanted to help.
But that part had let too many people in already. And not all of them had walked out alive.
He adjusted the strap on his bag and turned toward the parking lot, the weight of spring ball, captains’ meetings, NIL deals, and broken people all pressing against his shoulders.
The season was coming.
And it wouldn’t wait for anyone.
~~~~~~~~~~
The mic wobbled just slightly when Arianna stepped up to it.
The room inside the old coffeehouse-turned-art-space in downtown Lafayette buzzed with soft conversation, clinking cups, and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. Edison bulbs hung low from the exposed beams, casting pools of amber light across the wooden stage. Someone in the back laughed. Another whispered, “she look nervous.”
Arianna heard it. She didn’t react.
Her hands were still slightly damp, fingertips brushing the creased index cards she’d folded and unfolded half a dozen times since arriving. Her curls were pulled back in a loose puff, her hoops catching the warm light as she adjusted the mic just a bit lower. She didn’t want to speak over it. She wanted to speak through it.
A short exhale.
Then she began.
“You ever try to hold in grief?
Fold it up like a fitted sheet
and still never quite get the corners right?”
A hush fell across the crowd. Not out of politeness. But something quieter than that.
Attention.
“Ever smile so wide your cheeks burn
but your ribs still ache
from the silence?”
Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. Purposeful. Each line landed like she was letting go of something. Like each word was a match she struck and dropped behind her as she walked forward.
“They say healing ain’t linear
but mine looks like scribbles in a kid’s notebook
like phone numbers I don’t call anymore
like his name written and rewritten
in the margins of things that had nothing to do with him.”
A pause.
Then—
“My cousin died in the street.
And the street didn’t even flinch.
It just swallowed the blood
and kept on moving.”
There was a shift in the room then. Chairs stopped squeaking. Phones were forgotten. All that existed were her words and the space between them.
“I got family that left,
and family that stayed,
and family that don’t call unless somebody bleeding or pregnant or locked up.
I got love I never said
and guilt I never earned
and rage like a record scratch
underneath a gospel song.”
Her voice caught slightly—but she pushed through. Let the air fill with the raw edges she’d kept buried for years.
“But I’m here.
Ain’t that something?
All this weight and I’m still here.
Still rising like steam
from pots too full of memory and rice and survival.”
When she finished, the mic buzzed in the silence. Just for a second. Long enough for her to feel how much she'd just released.
Then—applause.
Not polite claps, not that kind of academic approval that said “good job.” This was full. Real. People whooped. Snapped. One woman near the front wiped her eyes.
Arianna smiled, small and crooked, the kind that comes when you surprise even yourself. She gave a slight bow and stepped off the stage, her hands no longer shaking.
Back at her seat, she sat down slow. Her chest was tight—not from fear, but from something that felt new. Clean. Like breath after a cry.
“You killed that,” the girl next to her whispered, leaning over. “That was real.”
“Thank you,” Arianna said softly. Her throat still felt raw from it all.
As the next poet approached the mic, Arianna leaned back in her seat, watching the flicker of light across the brick walls, the scattered notebooks, the strangers who had suddenly become witnesses to something sacred.
She didn’t know if it was healing, not completely. Not yet.
But it was something.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
The bathroom light was too bright, harsh against the cold tile and even harsher against Toni’s reflection. She leaned in close to the mirror, pressing her fingertip against the purple bloom just below her right eye. The concealer stick she held had been worn down to the nub, plastic casing pushing past the edge of the waxy makeup. She twisted it one last time, praying for enough to do the job.
Tap. Tap. Blend.
The bruise was faint now. Mostly green around the edges. But she saw it, even if no one else would. Even if Deshawn swore up and down that it didn’t look that bad. Even if he hadn’t said sorry.
Not really.
The bathroom door creaked open behind her. She didn’t flinch. She just kept dabbing, like his presence was routine.
Deshawn leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “You still getting ready?”
“I just finished my hair,” Toni said, not turning to look at him. Her voice stayed even.
“You wearing that?”
She looked up at her reflection again, then down at the dress on the hanger by the door. A long-sleeved olive green number she’d picked out days ago. It hit her knees and fit close at the waist, but loose in the sleeves. Modest, but pretty.
“I thought it looked nice,” she said.
Deshawn sucked his teeth. “It make you look wide.”
Toni blinked slowly at the mirror. “Okay.”
“You should wear the black one,” he continued. “The short one.”
“That’s more for going out,” she said, reaching for her brush, pretending to be unbothered.
“We are going out.”
“Not like that.”
“Don’t argue with me, Toni.”
Her hand froze on the brush.
He stepped into the bathroom now, behind her, his body crowding hers. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“I just think you should show a little more appreciation,” Deshawn said. His voice had dropped, softer now. “I take care of you. I don’t ask for much. Just wear the dress I like.”
Toni stared at her reflection. She didn't look like herself. She looked like someone waiting for permission to speak.
“Alright,” she whispered, setting the brush down. “I’ll change.”
Deshawn smiled and kissed her shoulder, like the conversation had been sweet, like he hadn’t just unspokenly erased her choice.
“I’m gonna be outside,” he said, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Hurry up though.”
The moment he left the room, Toni shut the door and sat down on the closed toilet lid. Her shoulders collapsed, hands resting in her lap. She let herself breathe—shallow, quiet, like she didn’t want to wake something lurking nearby.
Her eyes drifted to the black dress hanging in the back of the closet. The one he liked. The one she wore when he wanted to show her off like a trophy he didn’t know how to take care of.
She stood slowly and undressed with care, folding the olive dress and setting it on the counter like it needed comfort. Then, reluctantly, she stepped into the black one.
It clung tighter than she liked.
It felt like a costume.
But when she looked in the mirror, she smiled. Just enough to pass.
By the time she stepped out the door, Deshawn was already in the car, seat reclined, music playing low. He didn’t look up when she opened the passenger door.
But he nodded once.
“Better,” he said.
She nodded too. Just once. Just enough.
And as they pulled away from the curb, her fingers pressed into the fabric at her thigh like she could smooth the shame out of it.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7995
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
That Toni hospital update where she clinging to life is coming. Royce about to share a cell with Kevon
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Soapy
- Posts: 16879
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 18:42
Dying to Live
He ain't even spin for real for his brother, you think he's about to spin for her?Captain Canada wrote: ↑14 Apr 2025, 12:38That Toni hospital update where she clinging to life is coming. Royce about to share a cell with Kevon
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Are we not saying that Toni is choosing her bed?Captain Canada wrote: ↑14 Apr 2025, 12:38That Toni hospital update where she clinging to life is coming. Royce about to share a cell with Kevon
Bro was in the hospital shot up and he was supposed to go spin the block? On dudes who had been arrested? Make it make sense, your honorSoapy wrote: ↑14 Apr 2025, 13:07He ain't even spin for real for his brother, you think he's about to spin for her?Captain Canada wrote: ↑14 Apr 2025, 12:38That Toni hospital update where she clinging to life is coming. Royce about to share a cell with Kevon
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Caesar
Topic author - Chise GOAT
- Posts: 17003
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 10:47
Dying to Live
Near Disaster
The sky outside Royce’s bedroom window hadn’t decided if it wanted to be morning yet. A sheet of pale blue-gray light pressed in through the blinds, slanting across the hardwood floor in uneven lines. The rest of the room was a mess of quiet.
Royce sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced on his knees, shirt still half off his shoulders. He hadn’t touched his phone. It was on the nightstand behind him, screen-down, the notifications piling up in the dark.
His jaw worked slowly, teeth gently grinding, the way they did when he was chewing on something he didn’t know how to name.
Behind him, the soft rustle of sheets broke the silence.
Bree stirred.
He didn’t look back.
She was still for a moment, then sat up, pulling the blanket over her chest. She squinted at the slivers of light through the blinds, her face half-shadowed, hair messy and eyes sleep-heavy but sharp underneath.
“You just gonna sit there and pretend it’s weird?”
Royce didn’t turn around. He let out a breath and stood, the muscles in his back tight as he reached for the pair of sweats on the floor. He pulled them on with that quiet, athletic grace he always had, movements practiced and efficient.
His chain clinked lightly when it fell from the nightstand as he reached for his hoodie. He didn’t bother picking it up.
Bree’s voice came again, quieter this time. “You and Alix live together or something?”
That made him pause.
Not freeze—but pause. The kind of pause that left air heavy and thick, like someone had opened a window in the middle of a fight.
He turned slightly, just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.
“Nah.”
She nodded slowly, but her gaze didn’t leave the nightstand beside her. Her fingers brushed across it, stopping over a Polaroid picture tucked partially beneath a bottle of lotion. It was an off-guard shot—Alix in one of Royce’s hoodie, holding a coffee mug, mid-laugh. Natural. Unposed. Intimate.
There were rings in a small ceramic tray. Lip gloss. A Tide pen. A silver earring missing its pair. An open pack of gum.
It wasn’t a guest’s corner of the room.
It was a claim.
“You sure?” Bree asked, tilting her head. “Because it kinda look like she lives here.”
Royce dragged the hoodie over his head, said nothing. His silence answered like it always did—blunt, unmoved.
Bree smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“You ever think about not being a piece of shit behind her back?”
The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t said with tears or even edge.
Just... flat. Measured. A truth stated plainly.
Royce didn’t flinch. But something in him pulled taut.
His fingers curled into a fist for a second before he flexed them out.
He crossed the room, opened the bathroom door, and clicked on the light.
Bree watched him go. The blanket still around her shoulders. Still in his bed.
The water began to run.
Inside, Royce stood in front of the mirror, not looking at himself. Not yet. He turned the knobs higher until the steam began to coat the glass.
He pulled the hoodie off, then the shirt underneath, exposing the ridged muscles of his shoulders and back, the scar under his rib still faint but visible. He braced both hands on the sink, glancing down at the water lingering around the drain.
He stayed still.
The water kept running. Hot. Steady.
When he finally looked up, the mirror had started to fog. His face was already half-blurred.
He didn’t know if that was a good thing.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music from the house on Morgan bled into the street, bass vibrating through the cracked concrete like a low growl warning you before you even stepped on the porch. A sweet mix of gas and Swishers floated in the air, thick enough to taste.
Mike stood on the sidewalk, hoodie half-zipped, hands deep in his pockets. He could see Treg through the window—leaned back in a folding chair, head bobbing, Solo cup in hand. The lights inside were low and golden, washing over faces he’d grown up with. He could already hear them now, teasing before he even opened the door.
Still, he walked up.
Worm pulled the screen open as he reached the top step. “Whazzam, Big College?”
Mike rolled his eyes but smirked. “Y’all gotta stop calling me that.”
“Don’t be shy, studious-ass nigga,” Treg called from inside. “You applying to… what they call that? …grad school already?”
Mike walked into the living room, where four of them sat around a beat-up card table with dice and backwoods crumbs scattered across it. The TV was playing something nobody was watching—muted 2K, mid-game. Everyone had drinks in their hands and jokes lined up like bullets in a clip.
“I ain’t even enrolled yet,” Mike said, slumping onto the arm of the couch.
“Yeah, but you thinking about it,” Worm said. “That’s close enough.”
“Man bout to go up there and major in emotional intelligence,” somebody said. Laughter rippled around the room.
“Watch, he gon’ get on campus and find some white bitch from Arkansas who gonna have him hunting and shit.”
Mike laughed and shook his head. “Y’all got too much time.”
Treg leaned forward, pointing at him with his cup. “Just don’t go up there and turn into one of them niggas who be talking about having dialogues on what it mean to be Black in these white people country.”
“Shit, if it pay, I might.”
That got a few claps and a “Boy, you stupid for that,” from someone in the back.
But the truth was still chewing on him. The acceptance letter sat on his desk, right on top of the box he kept his weed money in. One of them had to go. He just hadn’t figured out which yet.
He was halfway through another halfhearted joke when his phone buzzed.
Laila: I’m outside.
He stood, brushing lint off his jeans. “Yo, I’ll be back.”
“Where you going?” Worm called. “You got tutoring tonight?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Treg grinned, slouched in his chair. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. He already practicing leaving the hood.”
More laughter. But Mike didn’t bother responding this time. He just stepped back out onto the porch.
Laila’s car was parked under the broken streetlamp, idling. She stepped out before he could wave.
“You really out here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“I was just chillin’,” he said, walking down the steps. “I wasn’t even gonna stay that long.”
She crossed her arms. “Yeah? You said that the last time you got caught up for two weeks straight.”
“I ain’t doin’ nothing,” Mike said, lowering his voice. “Just catching up with them.”
“You out here catching nothing but stagnation,” she muttered. “You really gonna stay in Houma just to play cards and duck bullets?”
“I’m not—”
pop-pop-pop.
Gunshots split the air, fast and too close.
Mike didn’t even think.
He lunged forward, grabbing Laila around the waist and dragging her down behind the trunk of her car. They hit the pavement hard—his elbow scraped, her breath knocked out of her. Someone screamed in the distance. Tires screeched. Another shot rang out, farther off now.
“Laila,” he gasped. “You good? You hit?”
She shook her head, blinking. “I don’t... I don’t think so.”
He pulled back and ran his hands over her—shoulders, ribs, thighs—checking for blood.
“I’m fine,” she said, firmer this time, grabbing his wrist. “I swear, Mike. I’m fine.”
But he kept staring at her like the bullet hadn’t landed yet. Like it still might.
Because for a second, it wasn’t her.
It was Royce.
It was Romeo.
It was too late.
And now here it was again, but this time, he could stop it.
“Mike,” she whispered, still holding his hand. “Breathe.”
His chest finally expanded, shaky and shallow.
She sat up slowly, brushing dust from her jeans, heart still pounding.
They got into her car in silence. Doors shut. World sealed off.
She started the ignition, but didn’t drive.
“You need to leave,” she said softly.
He stared at the glove box. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you know. But I think you’d rather gamble with your life than your future.”
He looked out the window as the house began to clear out. Sirens in the distance again.
Laila glanced over, her voice firmer. “You walk back in there tonight, I’m not coming with you next time.”
He didn’t say anything right away.
Then, quietly: “Take me home.”
And this time, he meant her kind of home.
The kind where the letter still sat on the desk, waiting to be mailed back.
The kind where you left before the blood ever hit the pavement.
The sky outside Royce’s bedroom window hadn’t decided if it wanted to be morning yet. A sheet of pale blue-gray light pressed in through the blinds, slanting across the hardwood floor in uneven lines. The rest of the room was a mess of quiet.
Royce sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced on his knees, shirt still half off his shoulders. He hadn’t touched his phone. It was on the nightstand behind him, screen-down, the notifications piling up in the dark.
His jaw worked slowly, teeth gently grinding, the way they did when he was chewing on something he didn’t know how to name.
Behind him, the soft rustle of sheets broke the silence.
Bree stirred.
He didn’t look back.
She was still for a moment, then sat up, pulling the blanket over her chest. She squinted at the slivers of light through the blinds, her face half-shadowed, hair messy and eyes sleep-heavy but sharp underneath.
“You just gonna sit there and pretend it’s weird?”
Royce didn’t turn around. He let out a breath and stood, the muscles in his back tight as he reached for the pair of sweats on the floor. He pulled them on with that quiet, athletic grace he always had, movements practiced and efficient.
His chain clinked lightly when it fell from the nightstand as he reached for his hoodie. He didn’t bother picking it up.
Bree’s voice came again, quieter this time. “You and Alix live together or something?”
That made him pause.
Not freeze—but pause. The kind of pause that left air heavy and thick, like someone had opened a window in the middle of a fight.
He turned slightly, just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye.
“Nah.”
She nodded slowly, but her gaze didn’t leave the nightstand beside her. Her fingers brushed across it, stopping over a Polaroid picture tucked partially beneath a bottle of lotion. It was an off-guard shot—Alix in one of Royce’s hoodie, holding a coffee mug, mid-laugh. Natural. Unposed. Intimate.
There were rings in a small ceramic tray. Lip gloss. A Tide pen. A silver earring missing its pair. An open pack of gum.
It wasn’t a guest’s corner of the room.
It was a claim.
“You sure?” Bree asked, tilting her head. “Because it kinda look like she lives here.”
Royce dragged the hoodie over his head, said nothing. His silence answered like it always did—blunt, unmoved.
Bree smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“You ever think about not being a piece of shit behind her back?”
The words weren’t shouted. They weren’t said with tears or even edge.
Just... flat. Measured. A truth stated plainly.
Royce didn’t flinch. But something in him pulled taut.
His fingers curled into a fist for a second before he flexed them out.
He crossed the room, opened the bathroom door, and clicked on the light.
Bree watched him go. The blanket still around her shoulders. Still in his bed.
The water began to run.
Inside, Royce stood in front of the mirror, not looking at himself. Not yet. He turned the knobs higher until the steam began to coat the glass.
He pulled the hoodie off, then the shirt underneath, exposing the ridged muscles of his shoulders and back, the scar under his rib still faint but visible. He braced both hands on the sink, glancing down at the water lingering around the drain.
He stayed still.
The water kept running. Hot. Steady.
When he finally looked up, the mirror had started to fog. His face was already half-blurred.
He didn’t know if that was a good thing.
~~~~~~~~~~
The music from the house on Morgan bled into the street, bass vibrating through the cracked concrete like a low growl warning you before you even stepped on the porch. A sweet mix of gas and Swishers floated in the air, thick enough to taste.
Mike stood on the sidewalk, hoodie half-zipped, hands deep in his pockets. He could see Treg through the window—leaned back in a folding chair, head bobbing, Solo cup in hand. The lights inside were low and golden, washing over faces he’d grown up with. He could already hear them now, teasing before he even opened the door.
Still, he walked up.
Worm pulled the screen open as he reached the top step. “Whazzam, Big College?”
Mike rolled his eyes but smirked. “Y’all gotta stop calling me that.”
“Don’t be shy, studious-ass nigga,” Treg called from inside. “You applying to… what they call that? …grad school already?”
Mike walked into the living room, where four of them sat around a beat-up card table with dice and backwoods crumbs scattered across it. The TV was playing something nobody was watching—muted 2K, mid-game. Everyone had drinks in their hands and jokes lined up like bullets in a clip.
“I ain’t even enrolled yet,” Mike said, slumping onto the arm of the couch.
“Yeah, but you thinking about it,” Worm said. “That’s close enough.”
“Man bout to go up there and major in emotional intelligence,” somebody said. Laughter rippled around the room.
“Watch, he gon’ get on campus and find some white bitch from Arkansas who gonna have him hunting and shit.”
Mike laughed and shook his head. “Y’all got too much time.”
Treg leaned forward, pointing at him with his cup. “Just don’t go up there and turn into one of them niggas who be talking about having dialogues on what it mean to be Black in these white people country.”
“Shit, if it pay, I might.”
That got a few claps and a “Boy, you stupid for that,” from someone in the back.
But the truth was still chewing on him. The acceptance letter sat on his desk, right on top of the box he kept his weed money in. One of them had to go. He just hadn’t figured out which yet.
He was halfway through another halfhearted joke when his phone buzzed.
Laila: I’m outside.
He stood, brushing lint off his jeans. “Yo, I’ll be back.”
“Where you going?” Worm called. “You got tutoring tonight?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Treg grinned, slouched in his chair. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. He already practicing leaving the hood.”
More laughter. But Mike didn’t bother responding this time. He just stepped back out onto the porch.
Laila’s car was parked under the broken streetlamp, idling. She stepped out before he could wave.
“You really out here?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“I was just chillin’,” he said, walking down the steps. “I wasn’t even gonna stay that long.”
She crossed her arms. “Yeah? You said that the last time you got caught up for two weeks straight.”
“I ain’t doin’ nothing,” Mike said, lowering his voice. “Just catching up with them.”
“You out here catching nothing but stagnation,” she muttered. “You really gonna stay in Houma just to play cards and duck bullets?”
“I’m not—”
pop-pop-pop.
Gunshots split the air, fast and too close.
Mike didn’t even think.
He lunged forward, grabbing Laila around the waist and dragging her down behind the trunk of her car. They hit the pavement hard—his elbow scraped, her breath knocked out of her. Someone screamed in the distance. Tires screeched. Another shot rang out, farther off now.
“Laila,” he gasped. “You good? You hit?”
She shook her head, blinking. “I don’t... I don’t think so.”
He pulled back and ran his hands over her—shoulders, ribs, thighs—checking for blood.
“I’m fine,” she said, firmer this time, grabbing his wrist. “I swear, Mike. I’m fine.”
But he kept staring at her like the bullet hadn’t landed yet. Like it still might.
Because for a second, it wasn’t her.
It was Royce.
It was Romeo.
It was too late.
And now here it was again, but this time, he could stop it.
“Mike,” she whispered, still holding his hand. “Breathe.”
His chest finally expanded, shaky and shallow.
She sat up slowly, brushing dust from her jeans, heart still pounding.
They got into her car in silence. Doors shut. World sealed off.
She started the ignition, but didn’t drive.
“You need to leave,” she said softly.
He stared at the glove box. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you know. But I think you’d rather gamble with your life than your future.”
He looked out the window as the house began to clear out. Sirens in the distance again.
Laila glanced over, her voice firmer. “You walk back in there tonight, I’m not coming with you next time.”
He didn’t say anything right away.
Then, quietly: “Take me home.”
And this time, he meant her kind of home.
The kind where the letter still sat on the desk, waiting to be mailed back.
The kind where you left before the blood ever hit the pavement.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 7995
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Dying to Live
Alix, swing BACK
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djp73
- Posts: 13262
- Joined: 27 Nov 2018, 13:42
Dying to Live
goat can't be doing thisCaesar wrote: ↑14 Apr 2025, 11:43
She looked up at her reflection again, then down at the dress on the hanger by the door. A long-sleeved olive green number she’d picked out days ago. It hit her knees and fit close at the waist, but loose in the sleeves. Modest, but pretty...
...She stood slowly and undressed with care, folding the olive dress and setting it on the counter like it needed comfort. Then, reluctantly, she stepped into the black one.