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I can hear ems….I can see em….All of ems, talkin’, laughin’, bitchin’ abou’ me or themselves or even about their so-called friend. All of thems are snakes to me. All of thems are rats to me. For some reasons, they all think so high of themselves. They way they talk to us, look at us, talk about us. I hate thems….I hate thems …I hate thems.


The name I was given when I was nothin’ but a baby is Kacey. I’ve been adopted at the age of seven because of the act my father did and for my protection. You see, my parents were very poor niggers and were becoming crazier everyday a lil’ bit more because of the stuff they were doin’ to the body of theirs is what I was told. I mostly think that the body dont matter. What was wrong was affecting their bodies but mostly their head. The worst was that, even if she was poor and miserable, my mother still cared a hell of alot ‘bout me and she always said that she loved both me and my father. She’d cook us some food everyday and even if we didn’t have much money, I enjoyed it every times because it was mommy’s cook. She’d do some soup with meat in it or she’d even cook some burgers or spaghettis. The best was when she was able to find some eggs and bacon. It happened mabye once a month. We would eat, both of us in silence, lookin’ at each other, talking with our eyes because, one who truly love another dont need no words to talk.

My father was a drunk, crack-adict piece of sad trash. He’d always leave soon in the morning and come back, if he did come back, late in the night and sleep the day after, only to start the morning after that, all over again’. He was the leader of some gang in the getto. Some nigger who were tryin’ to get more money for their kiddos by stealing the riches. He wasn’t there often with mom and I so I did not know him alot but I suppose I did love him. Until that night. One night, father came back late, drunk like always but more violent this time. His rage was caused by the arrestation of his best friend Mako. A job that ended badly I guess. When he came home and saw that the dinner that mom would always prepare for him wasn’t ready, he got mad crazy and smashed my mother so hard in the face I tought his fist would get trough her. He removed his black metal belt with a diamond-like color skull on it and faced me, staring at me for like 3 minutes in silence, immobile, like some kind of predator waiting the exact moment to attack its prey. He then said with a quiet voice, the voice he uses when he’s really mad angry, Lookie lookie kidd, I’m gonna give you bastards a lesson now so take off your pencil and a sheet of paper and note what you’ll see carefully. He then grabbed my mother by the hair and threw her in the bookshelf. Mom wasn’t crying nor was she shouting or crying for help. She knew noone would come to help a nigger anyway, if it’s not to help her die anyway. He then took his belt and smashed it at least twenty times on my mother’s back, tearing her pretty blue dress apart. My mother managed to hold it. She did not make a noise during all that beatin’. I was very proud of her, she kept her dignity. At least, until my father got more angry because he tought my mother had taken some morphine or another heavy drug to supress any kind of pain if taken in an abusive way.

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That pissed him off really bad. He accused her of taking drug without his permission and pulled out his metal bat. He tied me up to a chair, feets and hands, forcing me to watch as he’d beat my mother to death. I was to afraid. I wanted to help, I swear I did but, I couldn’t. The puddle of yellow water under my chair kept growing as the situation progressed. I watched all of it, every seconds. Every bloodshed coming out of various places on her body, Every tears that came out of her eyes before they were crushed and replaced with red tears. Every broken limbs. Every single bit of skin that, as the bat hit my mother, began to escape my mom’s body, leaving her bones out for everyone to see. After some times, mabye an hour, mabye a minute, he stopped. The crushing sound stopped. I would’ve given anything so my heart would’ve stopped with the sound, so it would remain forever silent. Then, surprising even myself, I asked, Where is mom ? He then turned slowly arround, with no emotions at all on his face and said I sent her somewhere you cannot visit her anymore.. I think, cuz’ I ain’t sure about it, but I think I loved her very much. I think I was close from my mother, even if she was a monster, she was my monster and she protected me from the cold and unfair world we are living in. My father untied me and had me cleanup the blood and even get the body out of his sight, wich meant, throw her in the trash can, she’s not of any good no more. I lifted her and tried to keep my cool even when I looked at the forearm bent in the wrong way. I couldn’t look at her face . I looked at it once and it was enough to make some conclusions; First, whatever I was carrying in my hand cannot possibly be my mother. Second, My father Will pay for what done and get my mom avenged for this.

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