187.
"And after seeing what we saw, can we still reclaim our innocence?"
Blood. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood. It’s messy and so, so red.
So beautiful.
I turn my head to see William pull out a white handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wipe the blood that was dripping from his pocket knife. He does so with such a smug look on his face as he stares down at the man he just murdered in cold blood. Or should I say boy. There wasn’t really a reason, aside from this no-name guy had the misfortune of selling in William’s side of town. This innocent man had no idea that coming up to William and I as we smoked our cigarettes on the corner of 5th and Washington Street that it would be the last thing he did in his young life.
I too stare down at the kid as I reach into my back pocket for my cigarettes. There is blood splattered across his ghost white face and the pool of red begins to seep from under his lifeless body and runs between the gravel in this dirty ally. This kid must be 18, not much older if that. The baggie of white powder is still clamped in his hand, exactly where it was when William had smirked behind his bangs when the kid had asked if we were interested in “some of this good shit.” I remember watching, realizing that William had a routine before he unleashed the evil I knew he had inside of him. That shit smirk was always followed by him tucking his hands into his godforsaken leather jacket and then he would flick his cigarette in his mouth up and down, up and down with his tongue, cock his head to the side before whoever had the misfortune to be locked in his gaze, like a antelope being hunted by a lion, would be at the fate of fucking William Beckett.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” William grumbles as he snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance up at him and watch as he folds up the now drenched red handkerchief and tucks it securely back into his jacket pocket. His knife is now clean and shows no evidence of causing the trauma that lay in front of us. The ally is dark but the small light coming from the convenience store across the way lends a hand in helping me watch William fold up his knife and tuck it back into his pocket.
I stay silent, knowing I really had nothing to say about the events of tonight, I watch William bend down and snatch up the baggie from the kid’s hand. Lighting my cigarette, I slowly inhale as William examines the bag. “I know it’s Wentz. He’s always tryin’ to fuckin’ sell to my people, knowing goddamn well that this part of the city is mine.”
Pete Wentz is our largest competitor. Heroin, meth, cocaine; the works. He does it all, just like us. “Go big or go home.” That’s what William is always spouting out to us. “Defend what is ours, and don’t let anyone get in your way.”
I hold the smoke in my lungs as long as I can, letting my eyes slip shut as the night air blows the smell of fresh blood all around the damp, dirty allyway. I exhale.
** For being a part of the biggest drug business in New Jersey, I have a pretty shitty apartment.
The door creaks when I push it open and creaks again before I slam it shut. The string dangling from the lone light bulb connected to the ceiling in the middle of the room clinks and almost falls from the rafters when I click it on. The light flickers but stays lit. I sigh.
You never dream about becoming a drug dealer, let alone a part of something so much more. I never thought I would ever become so involved, unfortunately so unwillingly. William plays hard, and once you’re involved with him there’s no turning back. If I could tell stupid 16-year-old Frank Iero to turn and run for the fucking hills when he met William Fucking Beckett at that low-life, shitty bar 8 years ago, I would. In a heartbeat.
But unfortunately I can’t turn back time. Or at least I haven’t met anyone just yet that could help me with that.
My fridge is empty aside from a 24-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and grape jelly. Unfortunately I ran out of bread and peanut butter three days ago and I still haven’t gotten paid from Willam yet this month. Thankfully my landlord is a pothead that lives in the apartment below me, and doesn’t require much other than an eighth every week to cover for the lack of income I produce. Luckily it’s easy to acquire at my job.
I crack open a beer and slip a baggie of my own pot out of my jean jacket before throwing it on the back of my futon. I sit down and flick on the small tv sitting across the room. Squinting through the static on screen, I begin to roll myself a joint.
Smoking helps me relax and tonight has been a stressful one at that. Lighting up the joint, I inhale and my heart rate begins to slow and I smile. I am rarely around when William does those kind of things. I like to stay out of that side of the business, for the fact that being caught isn’t fun. It’s happened to me a few too many times to count. Plus when murder comes into play, New Jersey cops don’t take lightly to you telling them how innocent you are; that you had nothing to do with it, you swear.
I find this out the next morning when I wake to someone kicking down my creaky front door and pinning me down to the futon I fell asleep on the night before. There’s shouting and when my eyes fly open I see a darker skinned guy with slicked back hair kneeling one of his legs on my chest, holding me down while pointing a gun right at my face. He’s wearing a clip on badge reading ‘Brendon Urie – Homicide’ and my heart leaps into my throat.
Fuckin’ William Beckett.
So beautiful.
I turn my head to see William pull out a white handkerchief from his back pocket and slowly wipe the blood that was dripping from his pocket knife. He does so with such a smug look on his face as he stares down at the man he just murdered in cold blood. Or should I say boy. There wasn’t really a reason, aside from this no-name guy had the misfortune of selling in William’s side of town. This innocent man had no idea that coming up to William and I as we smoked our cigarettes on the corner of 5th and Washington Street that it would be the last thing he did in his young life.
I too stare down at the kid as I reach into my back pocket for my cigarettes. There is blood splattered across his ghost white face and the pool of red begins to seep from under his lifeless body and runs between the gravel in this dirty ally. This kid must be 18, not much older if that. The baggie of white powder is still clamped in his hand, exactly where it was when William had smirked behind his bangs when the kid had asked if we were interested in “some of this good shit.” I remember watching, realizing that William had a routine before he unleashed the evil I knew he had inside of him. That shit smirk was always followed by him tucking his hands into his godforsaken leather jacket and then he would flick his cigarette in his mouth up and down, up and down with his tongue, cock his head to the side before whoever had the misfortune to be locked in his gaze, like a antelope being hunted by a lion, would be at the fate of fucking William Beckett.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” William grumbles as he snaps me out of my thoughts. I glance up at him and watch as he folds up the now drenched red handkerchief and tucks it securely back into his jacket pocket. His knife is now clean and shows no evidence of causing the trauma that lay in front of us. The ally is dark but the small light coming from the convenience store across the way lends a hand in helping me watch William fold up his knife and tuck it back into his pocket.
I stay silent, knowing I really had nothing to say about the events of tonight, I watch William bend down and snatch up the baggie from the kid’s hand. Lighting my cigarette, I slowly inhale as William examines the bag. “I know it’s Wentz. He’s always tryin’ to fuckin’ sell to my people, knowing goddamn well that this part of the city is mine.”
Pete Wentz is our largest competitor. Heroin, meth, cocaine; the works. He does it all, just like us. “Go big or go home.” That’s what William is always spouting out to us. “Defend what is ours, and don’t let anyone get in your way.”
I hold the smoke in my lungs as long as I can, letting my eyes slip shut as the night air blows the smell of fresh blood all around the damp, dirty allyway. I exhale.
** For being a part of the biggest drug business in New Jersey, I have a pretty shitty apartment.
The door creaks when I push it open and creaks again before I slam it shut. The string dangling from the lone light bulb connected to the ceiling in the middle of the room clinks and almost falls from the rafters when I click it on. The light flickers but stays lit. I sigh.
You never dream about becoming a drug dealer, let alone a part of something so much more. I never thought I would ever become so involved, unfortunately so unwillingly. William plays hard, and once you’re involved with him there’s no turning back. If I could tell stupid 16-year-old Frank Iero to turn and run for the fucking hills when he met William Fucking Beckett at that low-life, shitty bar 8 years ago, I would. In a heartbeat.
But unfortunately I can’t turn back time. Or at least I haven’t met anyone just yet that could help me with that.
My fridge is empty aside from a 24-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and grape jelly. Unfortunately I ran out of bread and peanut butter three days ago and I still haven’t gotten paid from Willam yet this month. Thankfully my landlord is a pothead that lives in the apartment below me, and doesn’t require much other than an eighth every week to cover for the lack of income I produce. Luckily it’s easy to acquire at my job.
I crack open a beer and slip a baggie of my own pot out of my jean jacket before throwing it on the back of my futon. I sit down and flick on the small tv sitting across the room. Squinting through the static on screen, I begin to roll myself a joint.
Smoking helps me relax and tonight has been a stressful one at that. Lighting up the joint, I inhale and my heart rate begins to slow and I smile. I am rarely around when William does those kind of things. I like to stay out of that side of the business, for the fact that being caught isn’t fun. It’s happened to me a few too many times to count. Plus when murder comes into play, New Jersey cops don’t take lightly to you telling them how innocent you are; that you had nothing to do with it, you swear.
I find this out the next morning when I wake to someone kicking down my creaky front door and pinning me down to the futon I fell asleep on the night before. There’s shouting and when my eyes fly open I see a darker skinned guy with slicked back hair kneeling one of his legs on my chest, holding me down while pointing a gun right at my face. He’s wearing a clip on badge reading ‘Brendon Urie – Homicide’ and my heart leaps into my throat.
Fuckin’ William Beckett.
Notes
eee! Lizzy let me be co-writer on this amazing story and I have no words. I'm very excited and honored for such a title and am very excited for everyone to see what we have in store! Stay tuned! ps. comments make us write faster! (for real!!) :DSpeaking of, this chapter is dedicated to the following for leaving encouraging comments on the first chapter. Thanks to each of you for your wonderful words, they meant the world to us and fueled us to get this new chapter out asap! @zombie--, @Becky Miero, & @TwistedKnife
-Shelby
Please, please come back! I need more!
5/28/14