A couple of days later, I dropped off the reviews to Rhonda, who I assume gave them to Ken. Two weeks later, Rhonda called and offered me the job.

I didn't say anything at first. I was thinking about whether I should accept or not, especially knowing that I'd have to endure being called "La'Vette" all day, every day.

Sensing my hesitation, Rhonda threw in a bonus point.

"Oh, and we're willing to pay you two dollars more an hour than you currently make."

That instantly removed all hesitation.

"When can I start?" I immediately asked.

We agreed I'd start in two weeks-and that only Ken would call me La'Vette. I never even returned to Dave's firm. I called them on the phone, told them I quit, and instructed them to mail me my final check.

"What 'final' check?" Sandy asked. She seemed extremely aggravated by the question. Sandy was in the human-resources department and in charge of vacation and sick-leave benefits. We never got along, especially since she constantly complained about my missing so much time from work-time she swore I never had on the books. She was such a bitch. I hated her.

"You're ten days in the hole!" she yelled.

"What's that mean?" I yelled back. I started to add "bitch" to the end of the question, but decided I probably shouldn't piss her off before I'd gotten my money.

"It means you've already taken vacation and sick days that you didn't have on the books."

"So?"

"So, YOU owe US money!" she snapped. "I don't know why they kept you around this long." She continued ranting on and on about how I'd taken advantage of the system and how it wasn't fair to the other employees and how I should be reported to the "proper authorities."

I wasn't in the mood to hear her shit. Anyway, it wasn't MY fault the other employees were too stupid to take advantage of leave policies. I mean, hell, that is why it's called "LEAVE"! Besides, her blabbering was fucking up my high, and since it was obvious that she wasn't gon' give me any money, I could dispense with the pleasantries.

"Fuck you-bitch!" I yelled, and slammed down the phone.

I never saw anyone from there again. I didn't care. Good riddance! was my attitude. I was on to bigger, better, and higher-paying things.

- The following week, Tommy got good news too. Through a hookup with a fellow partier, he'd landed a good job delivering furniture for a major department store. On top of finding a job, he'd gotten one that paid more money and had opportunity for advancement. (Of course, we didn't give a fuck about any advancement. All we cared about was more money.) We were back on top. That weekend, we celebrated our new jobs and unexpected higher salaries by charging new furniture, housewares, pictures, and even some new clothes. For the first time in a long time, we fixed up everything-including ourselves-really nice and pretty. So we ran up the charge cards, swore off crack, and vowed to do only "good" drugs: coke, meth, weed, pills, booze, and of course, PCP-at least, for me-every now and then. As usual, we charged the stuff with honest intentions of paying for it (despite the fact some of the cards were obtained using aliases). We planned to use the higher salaries to pay bills and get our lives in order.

- I hated working for Ken at first, and he wasn't so happy about it either, though he continued to demonstrate extreme patience-most likely because he was well aware of the legal-secretary shortage. Still, it was immediately obvious that my knowledge of court rules was a little lacking. I gave him the story about a prior head injury that caused periodic memory loss.

"Well, you've been a legal secretary for years now. How have you been managing with your 'bad' memory?" he asked suspiciously. I explained how previous employers allowed me to supplement my memory by writing things down on Post-its.

"Well, did you bring those Post-its WITH YOU?" he snapped.

I explained that I hadn't because I was unsure of how he would respond to a bunch of Post-its stuck all over my desk.

"Whatever it takes!" he yelled. "Do whatever it takes!"

I did. And so did the firm, by assigning one of the more experienced legal secretaries to assist me in "learning the ropes." The woman named Maria was an older white lady. As she taught me the firm's policies and procedures, and "refreshed" me about court rules, I made notes on little yellow Post-its. During our first session, we went through an entire packet of Post-its. It wasn't long before my desk, ledge, and entire cubicle were covered with Post-its.

Ken also expected me to work way more than any other boss. Even though the firm had a full-time receptionist, Ken required me to answer all of his incoming calls and place all of his outgoing ones. At first I was nervous about having to have such extensive phone interaction, fearing I'd have periodic slips of slang. And I also had to watch how I talked, since I had a habit of talking loud-very loud-partly because my voice was just naturally loud, but mostly because I spent so much time partying where there was loud-playing music.

While I worried about speaking softly and properly, Ken worried about how his clients would react to my name-especially since, when making his outgoing calls, I'd have to state my name and on whose behalf I was placing the call. I told Ken that I understood why he couldn't call me Cupcake, so I was willing to compromise and allow him to call me La'Vette. But, no one else could refer to me by that name. I didn't go into specifics as to why; I just determinedly stated that I disliked the name. Seeing my seriousness about the issue, we agreed that only he would use La'Vette. I would be introduced to everyone else as Cupcake. At first, people were a little taken aback when I said "Cupcake," often asking me to spell the name because they were unsure of what I said. But I was so friendly, courteous, and talkative, they usually responded positively. As callers slowly became used to it, my name wasn't much of a shocker anymore.

My nervousness quickly vanished, and I soon loved the phone contact because when speeding I loved to run my mouth; and talking to opposing counsel and to clients provided me the regular opportunity to do so. My conversations were unusually uninhibited, since I was unaware of the unspoken rule that a secretary was supposed to be reserved or conservative when talking on the phone. I talked to everyone who called-about everything and anything. I'd regularly ask about their well-being, their families, what they had planned for the weekend, or anything else that happened to be on my mind at the time. Although they may have been initially surprised by my talkativeness, soon people actually started chatting with me for a little while before asking to be put through to Ken. It didn't take long before I'd developed a great rapport with everyone who called. As caller after caller began telling Ken how terrific I was and how much they enjoyed talking to me, his discomfort about my name diminished.

Ken really liked the fact that I typed so fast. What he didn't know was that coke, crystal, and other uppers provided me with incredible typing speed. On top of that, the extensive typing that had been required when I was a word processor had provided me the essential practice to improve my accuracy.

Shorthand was another story. I wasn't fast or accurate. So shortly after starting work with Ken, I started taking a class at night school. I loved that shorthand class and immediately remembered why I'd picked it up so easily in the first place: it was a great way to tweak. And Ken was impressed that I had signed up for a refresher class at night. He saw it as true dedication and commitment to my job (I tried to keep a straight face when he said that). Daddy and Jr. were also happy that I was taking a night class. I didn't tell them it was only a shorthand class and that it wasn't for credit; I just told them that I was going to school at night. Still, they were proud of my "efforts" to better my life and viewed my night class as a sign that I was really trying to get myself together.

I did too.

I was drinking and using way more than when I'd taken shorthand at the vocational college, so I was having a hard time remembering all the symbols. To rectify this, I made up a few of my own. By the end of the class, using a combination of official shorthand symbols and those I'd created, my speed greatly improved. Soon, I actually began to truly enjoy working for Ken because between running my mouth a mile a minute on the phone, taking shorthand, and typing, I had plenty to tweak with all day. And the extra responsibility and higher pay further solidified my belief that I had my shit together.

- Ken's clients were constantly telling him how friendly and polite I was and how much they liked me; and he observed the effort I put into trying to be a good secretary. All of these factors combined caused him to like me even more-which is probably why he stood up for me when the complaints started rolling in. Almost immediately, the other secretaries began to complain about me. They nagged Rhonda, the other lawyers, Ken, and anyone else who would listen.

They started with my attire. While I was working for Jack's firm, I'd trimmed down wearing miniskirts and halter tops. But this time it wasn't my style of clothes that was being criticized, but rather their condition: most times they were dirty, but not filthy. Sometimes they were wrinkled and disheveled, but at least they matched.

Then, they complained about my hygiene-or lack thereof-I never brushed my teeth (hell, they were crooked and ugly; I thought people brushed only pretty teeth); I came to work with sleep and other sticky gook in my eyes (if I had even slept the night before); and rarely combed my frenzied, unkempt hair (I'd justify it by saying I was going for the "natural" look; problem was, there was nothing "natural" about my uncombed hair). But hell, no one told me that good hygiene was a requirement for working. And my attitude was if you didn't like my breath, my unwashed face, or my tousled hair, stay the fuck away from me-no problem.

They also made a ruckus about my total lack of work ethic. Though I hadn't yet gotten into my usual habitual absences, I was late every day.

Y'all oughta be happy I'm even HERE! I'd grumble to myself as I stumbled in twenty to thirty minutes late.

As I tottered past the other secretaries, they'd frown at me with You're late again glaring in their eyes. All of the secretaries, that is, except Maria, the woman who'd been assigned to teach me the ropes. She always seemed to be glad just to see me. No matter how late I came in, she greeted with me a wide, warm smile. It seemed liked the more negatively the other secretaries talked about and judged me, the more patience and kindness Maria showed me. I once asked her why she hadn't jumped on the "Let's hate Cupcake" bandwagon. She stood for a moment pondering the question and then softly replied that "God" had instructed her to love me. That's when I realized that Maria was nuts.

Still, the other secretaries nagged on. Next, they bitched about my cluttered work space. They complained about the number of lil yellow Post-its covering my cubicle; they nagged about the fact that my desk stayed cluttered with papers, that I was constantly disorganized, that my voice was too loud, and that I ate at my desk-and smacked my lips when I ate. (What they didn't realize, or know, was that I had to eat at my desk. Any money I got was seldom spent on food, so the snacks the firm supplied in the break rooms provided me breakfast and lunch every day. But I couldn't eat breakfast before work because I was usually late to work, which meant I didn't have time to eat it in the break room. And I couldn't eat during my lunch hour because I usually spent that time using or sleeping. So the only time I had to eat was at my desk).

At least Ken was pleased with me. He didn't seem to notice my unprofessional attire, my unusually loud voice, my noisy smacking, or my messy desk. All he seemed to care about was that I did what he asked and his clients loved me.

Meanwhile, Tommy was also doing really well at his new job. In addition to just being a deliveryman, the department store began teaching him how to drive their trucks-the big trucks-eighteen-wheelers. It seemed Tommy picked up the skills easily and quickly. His supervisor told him that if he continued to catch on like he did, he'd be able to obtain the special license in no time. The supervisor also told him that with that special license came even more money. That was all the incentive Tommy needed. Within a few months, he'd taken and passed the test and was no longer riding in the large moving trucks, but driving them-severely hungover or high as hell.

41.

IN MY MIND, every category of drug had a medicinal purpose, and I used them like medication. I would self-prescribe a fat blunt to relax me or increase my appetite (most times both). Speed gave me energy, a pep in my step, and a head rush that was out of this world. Alcohol gave me courage, made me dance like Michael Jackson, and in the wee hours of the morning was the only thing that could slow me down when hours of doing speed had sped me up too much. And downers calmed my sometimes uncontrollable anger and helped me sleep.

Every drug had its purpose, but if I had to pick a favorite, it would be crack. I loved everything about it: the smell, the texture of the small white rocks, the way the smoke curled up inside the glass pipe, and the feeling of that first hit. But that was the problem with crack: I was never able to regain the euphoria of the first hit. And worse still was the dreaded "comedown." Crack gave me such a feeling of ecstasy that coming down was like barreling down a ninety-degree slope at two hundred miles an hour-with no brakes. Losing the elation was so gloomy and miserably depressing, it was called "crashing." The compulsion to avoid crashing generated its own desperation: desperation to keep the intense high, desperation to keep the heart beating so fast that it felt like it was going to jump out of your chest, and desperation to maintain the astounding euphoric sensation. It is this extreme desperation that compels the most calm, passive, peaceful person to abruptly and unexpectedly turn into an aggressive, brutally violent criminal willing to do anything-rob, steal, and even kill-to keep from crashing. That is why it was such an expensive drug: I never wanted to come down. Never.

But I wasn't rich, so each time the money ran out, I was forced to crash. And it was during the crash that I had to face the financial damage I'd done during that run: spending the rent money, smoking up the phone bill that was already two months overdue, looking at spaces that used to hold something but were empty because we'd sold whatever had been there to the dope man or the pawnshop. And it was always during the crash that I'd swear off crack. I swore that that would be the last time I'd lose control. I swore to learn to control my smoking. I'd convince myself that the next time, I'd only do a hundred dollars and that would be it! And I meant it with every fiber of my soul.

- As our crack use increased, we were forced to develop new ways to make money. Since dumping most of our party friends and vowing to generally hang with partiers who had jobs, I refused to do anything really illegal, which meant that burglaries were now out, though shoplifting remained open game. Problem with that was stores were getting smarter and installing cameras everywhere, so it wasn't as easy as it used to be. And although the working group was hauling in several paychecks, with all of us constantly smoking, we never had enough money or dope.

It's amazing how creative dope fiends can be. It didn't take me long before I discovered several hustles-furniture-rental centers and gift certificates-each of which came by mistake.

One day a doper had come to our house to party. Seeing that we were sitting on large sleeping bags thrown around the room, she told us about furniture-rental centers: places where you could actually go and rent furniture.

Tommy was hesitant at first. Always being the rational one, he pointed out that we were barely paying the bills we had, so maybe it wasn't a good idea to go creating more. Ignoring him, I wasted no time getting to the place the doper told us about. Sure enough, they rented us a houseful of furniture: living-room, bedroom, even dining-room sets. They were so impressed by our jobs and salaries, they even rented us a twenty-five-inch TV, a VCR, and a microwave.

When we had the stuff in the apartment, Tommy's hesitancy disappeared. Once again we knew we were "coming up." Surely this time it would stick because now we had stuff we didn't own, so we couldn't sell it-so I thought.

It turns out that the dope man even took rental furniture. I found that out by accident. We'd beeped Rafael, one of our dealers to bring over a "50-cent piece" (a half gram of crack). (Back then, once you became a "regular customer," the dealer would deliver. We'd just beep him on a pager and when he returned our call, we told him how much dope we wanted, which he'd bring over.) Problem this night was we were ten dollars short. I was reminding Rafael of what loyal customers we'd been and began begging him to give us a break. Ignoring my pleas, he looked around the room and suddenly said: "I'll give you a hundred dollars' worth of dope for the TV."

"A hundred bucks!" Tommy yelled. "Man, that's a twenty-five-inch color! It's worth at least three hundred!"

"A hundred," Rafael repeated slowly and firmly.

We'd been broke for several days. All I'd done was weed and booze. Although they were fine in a crunch, I was dying for a hit.

"Sell it to him!" I yelled. I really wanted to get high.

"Cup, it's not even ours!" Tommy yelled back. "It's rented, remember?!"

I had forgotten. We'd had the stuff for less than two months, and I'd already forgotten it wasn't mine.

The room went silent for a moment, and then Rafael spoke, again in that low, firm voice. "Man, that's not my problem."

Shit, if he didn't mind if it was rented, I sure as hell didn't!

Rafael took the TV that night. And we got high that night.

The next night we sold the VCR and the microwave to him. Two days later we sold the whole living-room set to another dealer. The dining-room and bedroom sets were gone in the following weeks.

Of course we quit paying the furniture-rental bill. Shit, I figured I was justified in not paying for stuff I no longer had. The phone had gotten turned off, so we didn't have to worry about any harassing calls, and we ignored the "final notice" threats we regularly received in the mail. Each time they caught me at work, I promised to send a payment in a few days. Of course I never did. Soon they just stopped calling. I don't know if they ever came to repossess the furniture because we were evicted shortly thereafter and were forced to move. Naturally, we didn't leave a forwarding address. In fact, we never left a forwarding address-either because we didn't want creditors and former landlords to find us, or, at the time of eviction, we didn't know where our next address would be. This time, it was both.

We did find another apartment, though. Vowing again to "start over" and get our lives together, we went to a different rental place. Why they rented to us, I don't know. Whether the previous place had put anything on our credit reports, I had no idea. All I know is that, once we showed two recent check stubs, they rented us a TV, microwave, and VCR. We swore not to sell them this time. And we didn't-at first. Instead, I discovered the benefit of gift certificates. Again, by accident.

I'd gone to a department store and, using one of my numerous charge cards, charged a $50 gift certificate, which I made out to myself. My plan was to charge a $50 leather purse which I'd then sell to the dope man, or his woman, for $10 worth of dope (the dope man never paid full value for anything). When I went to pay for it, the clerk opened the cash register drawer to return the unused amount to me.

"You mean if I buy something for less than the amount of the gift certificate I get the difference in cash?!" I asked with total shock.

"Why yes," she replied. She seemed surprised at my ignorance of gift certificates. As she continued counting the change, she asked "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Fuck yeah!!

My mind raced with ideas about what to do with the luck I'd just been handed. I immediately changed my mind about the purse. Hell, it cost too much.

"Uh. . . . yes." I stammered. I was trying hard to contain my excitement and keep my composure. My eyes darted around the department looking for something small-something cheap. They quickly locked onto a $3.00 pair of earrings.

"I'll take these instead!" I yelped.

She gladly gave me the earrings and almost $46 in cash. I gladly got high.

Over the next several months I ran up thousands of dollars on the charge cards, solely on gift certificates. I'd charge a $100 gift certificate and then buy the cheapest item I could find.

I seemed to never run out of charge cards. Once I ran one up to its limit, I'd quit paying on it and open others using aliases, which allowed me to get even more cards. Whenever the dope man wouldn't buy my goods, I switched to pawnshops. Pawnshops took anything-furniture, clothing, jewelry-which allowed me to expand my hustle. Between the rental furniture, gift certificates, pawn shops, and full-time jobs, money was good-for a while. Sometimes I told Tommy about the extra money. Most times I didn't.

- For a while I was able to keep a vow never to drink during the day. I wanted to make the job with Ken last. But as usual, I was only able to fake it for so long. It didn't take long for me to start calling in sick and killing off relatives so that I could take bereavement leave. My using was increasing exponentially. I was forced to revise my vow: now it was to never drink before noon because I began needing a drink or two in the morning to help steady my shaking hands and slow down my racing heart. After smoking crack or using various forms of speed all night, my heart would be beating so hard and so fast that it felt like it was going to (literally) explode. My eyes would be trying to see everything everywhere at once, and my body would be zooming. Because of these "health reasons," I allowed myself to drink in the mornings. And when I couldn't get away long enough to sneak a couple of drinks, I'd pop reds, T's, blues, or valium. Of course the downers and booze did what they were supposed to: calmed my body down, slowed my heart rate, and steadied my eyes. Problem was, they slowed everything down so much that I'd damn near fall asleep at my desk, in the bathroom, or wherever I happened to be when they kicked in. So to counteract the booze I'd toot some crank or pop some beauties or yellow jackets at lunch. They lifted me up and gave me the oomph I needed to make it through the afternoon. It was an ingenious schedule.

- The violence between Tommy and me was getting worse. The combination of mind-altering drugs and extreme insecurities was a dangerous one. The higher Tommy got, the more he became convinced that I was screwing around. And when he became insecure, he became violent.

He also became violent when he thought I'd hidden or stashed dope. He was usually right, but I never admitted it. He always forced me to be the one to go cop more dope. It would be three in the morning and I'd be the one that had to go re-up. I never realized how dangerous it was: a young woman alone in crack-infested territory in the wee hours of the morning. But I wasn't scared. Fear of physical harm never occurred to me. The only fear I had was of the police. I'd escaped jail all of my life and intended to continue to do so.

Once I copped the dope, I'd immediately cut off a small piece and stash it. Then I'd happily head home to get high with my husband. We'd get high and be happy-till the dope ran out. If we had more money or something to sell, I took off again to re-up. But once the money ran out, the arguing would start: who'd gotten the biggest pieces, who'd wasted more dope by inhaling wrong, or who'd hidden dope. Then the fighting would start. No matter how hard or how many times Tommy hit me, I'd never own up to the piece of rock stashed in my shoe, shirt, or panties. After kicking my ass, he'd crash. Once he crashed, I'd sneak into the bathroom, pull out the piece I'd hidden, and get high, laughing to myself at how I'd fooled him yet again.

Sometimes though, the fighting was not over drugs, but his insecurities, which were getting insanely out of hand. I still remember his craziest delusion. We'd moved yet again. This time we lived right across the street from a liquor store. It was a Friday night and I'd just gotten paid. Paydays were no big thing in our minds. The only thing different about them was that they guaranteed a get-high for the night-but only for the night. I'd leave work with a full paycheck and, by the next morning, wouldn't have enough left to make a twenty-cent phone call. But the night was early and we still had money, so the get-high was "gettin' good."

We'd run out of rubbing alcohol. We no longer used rum to burn the torch because it cost too much. Rubbing alcohol served the same purpose and was a third of the cost. Only problem was, it turned the pipe black. I hated black pipes because I couldn't see the smoke swirling inside. But we'd taken care of that problem because we no longer used glass pipes. They'd also become too expensive (though I loved watching the smoke curl and dance inside the pipe as I took a hit, once I realized that the less money we spent on paraphernalia, the more money we'd have for dope, I gladly gave it up). So we switched to metal car antennas. I don't know who discovered that those slim metal antennas were a perfect and cheap substitute for glass pipes: they were hollow so they smoked just like a pipe ('cept they got hot too fast); and the best part was that, unlike expensive glass pipes, they were free-you just snapped them off a car-any car, and there was an unlimited supply.

Anyway, we were on our third run of hundred-dollar rocks when Tommy announced that we were out of alcohol. He ran across the street to the store to get some more. What happened next is bewildering.

Our apartment complex was very small, and the units were very close to each other. They were so close that front doors were literally side by side. Our next door neighbor, Debra, "entertained" a lot and always had a different guy visiting her. If a person wasn't careful, or wasn't paying close attention, he could easily think that someone who was coming out of Debra's apartment was coming out of ours instead. That's exactly what Tommy thought as he returned from the store and saw a man leaving Debra's apartment. The dope convinced Tommy that the man was leaving our place.

"You got that nigga in here?" he hollered as he came bolting through the door, slamming the small brown bag containing the alcohol on the table. Or what we used as a table. We'd recently sold our dining-room set, so the table was just a card table with two folding chairs. I didn't care. It did its job-it held the mirror, which held the dope.

The whole five minutes he'd been gone, I was on the floor on my hands and knees searching for lost rocks. (I called it "cleaning the carpet." For some reason, I believed-or rather hoped-that during the night, I'd spilled some crumbs onto the floor. So once the dope was gone, or in between hits, I'd get down on the floor on all fours and literally pick at anything in hopes of finding a rock. I'd be down there for hours, sweating, eyes dilated enormously, in a crack-induced trance, picking at the carpet. I never found anything, but that never stopped me from looking.) Tommy's yelling startled me out of my trance. I had dope but, without a torch, had no way to smoke it. Needless to say, I'd become extremely antsy while waiting on him to return with the alcohol so I could resume smoking. I was in no mood for his shit.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snapped as I jumped to my feet and reached for the alcohol.

"I saw that nigga come out of here. You snuck him in here and fucked him, didn't you?"

This nigga's trippin'! I told myself. How in the hell could I have called a guy, sneaked him in, and fucked in the five minutes it took Tommy to go to the store?

"Nigga, you trippin'," I nonchalantly responded as I began wrapping a piece of cotton around the pliers to form a torch. I was so focused on the torch, I didn't see the punch coming.

Pow! He punched me in the arm. I, being the Gangsta I was, stood up and swung back. We'd fought for only a few seconds when I realized I was losing. I decided a good run was better than a bad stand any day. I bolted for the door, screaming at the top of my lungs, with Tommy quick on my heels.

Our neighbors were used to the fighting, screaming, and sounds of smashing furniture. That night was no different. So they reacted as they normally did-ignored us. One of them did shout for us to "shut the fuck up!"

Ignoring the irate neighbor, I ran down the stairs two at a time and headed straight for the iron gate that guarded the entrance to the complex. Normally, I was glad for that gate because without a key, a person had to be buzzed in. However, now that I needed to get out really, really fast, the damn thing was in my fucking way. Still traveling at full speed, I reached for the knob but I was too high to be able to perform the required coordination of pushing the gate and turning the handle at the same time. So instead of going through the gate, I clumsily smashed my body into it.

"Shit!" I screamed as the coldness of the metal slammed through my body.

I was struggling to get the gate open when Tommy came running up behind me.

"Bitch!"

He grabbed me by my hair. Luckily for me I didn't take care of my hair, so it was constantly breaking off at uneven lengths. Unfortunately for Tommy, he grabbed at a short portion and my head easily slipped through his hands. Realizing he'd missed, and I had another chance, I continued struggling with the metal knob. I couldn't believe how much trouble I was having turning and pushing at the same time.

"Damn you!" I screamed to the gate, hoping that cussing it out would somehow force it open.

This time, Tommy decided to go for my head instead of my hair. I had never realized how large his hands were. His right hand cupped the back of my head easily. Once he knew he had a good grip, he began squeezing his hand around my head.

What's he gon' do? I asked myself. Squeeze my head till it pops? I laughed to myself at the vision that appeared in my mind: some horror flick with "Jason" or "Michael Myers" squeezing their victims' heads till the eyes popped out, and blood, veins, and other carnage gushed every which way. But I didn't have time to enjoy my comedic imagination. I had to save my life.

"You want that nigga?" he yelled. His hand squeezed around my head even tighter. The pressure was starting to mess up my high and give me a headache.

"I said do you want that nigga?" he asked again, this time through clenched teeth. Before I could answer, he yanked my head back and with all his might slammed my face into the gate, which swung open from the impact.