There's a 50% chance that something bad will happen to you.
If you live in an extremely bad neighborhood, the chance increases to 80%. If you were part of a minority group in a bad neighborhood, the chance of you being targeted is 95%.
Now if you were part of a minority group in a bad neighborhood, had a small body frame, awkward deposition, and the confidence of a mouse to wrap it all up, the chances of you walking down the street without getting mugged, harassed, beat, scuffed, razzed and or called was less than 1%.
For Mickey, that means that a simple trip from his mothers house to the shop for a pack of cigarettes was like walking through an open field during the war.
"Boy, you better go get me my smoke now before I smoke yo ass!" His mother called from her room towards him.
Mickey stood at the door, gathering his twelve year old nerves and praying that luck was on his side.
It was 12pm in the afternoon and everyone should be too tired from the heat.
They would be laying on their porch, in the shade, not caring enough for a small caterpillar scurrying by.
He could hear his mother's room door open, probably to check if he had left, and if not, chase him out. Mickey didn't want her to see him in front of the door, so with a deep breath, he stepped out.
The streets were empty.
Normally, that'll signify a good thing. The lack of people meant that he could go to the shop and come back safely.
Yet after passing a few houses, he knew he had made a mistake; the streets were too empty.
Still, he walked on carefully, eyes quickly scanning his surroundings, looking for a sign.
Normally, in the afternoon there's no way the streets would be this empty, even the homeless people were gone.
He walked on still, the fear of his mother's slippers outweighing common sense. She wouldn't excuse his return without a cigarette box in hand for any reason.
He walked towards the corner of the street, the cigarette store was just beyond that corner.
Yet as he was about to turn the corner, he stopped, his breath hooked.
In a split second, a body was thrown through the crates piled on the road, just a few inches from Mickey.
Terror ran through his body as he saw the cuts and bruises on the body, at first he thought the person was dead, till he turned over and tried to sit up.
Another man, dressed in faded jeans, a jersey and used a blue bandana as his arm band walked to the man who had just been flung through the crates.
Nonchalantly he pulled out a gun and shot thrice at the man.
The loud bangs rang at Mickey's ear, the blood sprayed on his face, he was stricken still with fear.
The man with a blue bandana then turned to face him, he raised his gun—
There's a 50% chance that something good will happen to you.
If you live in an extremely bad neighborhood, the chance decreases to 20%. If you were part of a minority group in a bad neighborhood, the chance of you surviving being targeted is 5%.
Now if you were part of a minority group in a bad neighborhood, had a small body frame, awkward deposition, and the confidence of a mouse to wrap it all up, the chances of you walking down the street without getting mugged, harassed, beat, scuffed, razzed and or called was less than 1%.
Yet, if you survive long enough, planned, hungered and waited patiently, that 1% is all you ever need.
Cause when that time comes, you'll know, and you wouldn't be dumb enough to miss your shot.
Anthony glided down the streets with his skateboard, body weaving, hands moving and music in his ear.
At seventeen years old, he had left his twelve year old self and everything relating to it in the past.
His home, his demeanor, his mother, friends and his name.
He played volleyball now, a long before he went pro, but he didn't allow that to stop him.
He read the news recently about a whole group of teenagers caught in the midst of a gang war and it reminded him of that particular day.
The blue bandana man showed him instantly that he wouldn't be able to survive in such a place.
The caterpillar had to fly away and that's what he did.
He read more, applied for a university scholarship far away, faked his mother's signature, got in and just left.
He was saved that day on a whim, a stroke of luck, one that he hadn't had his whole life, he cashed it all in.
For as the man with the blue bandana raised his gun to his terror stricken head and shot, he was out of bullets.
The man stood for a second, shrugged and simply walked away.
Mickey had wet himself and walked back home without the cigarette box, his mother fast asleep, not a care in the world.
Anthony shook his head, clearing the thoughts that had grown louder than the songs in his head.
He simply wanted to ride and forget, then play volleyball later in the week, a monotonous safe and beautiful life.
Not the type of life a caterpillar can live, scurrying around to the whim of predators, vices and crime.
The life of a butterfly, who moves from field to field, fluttering in its own time.
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