April Morning

Posted for Nanill by Dorym

New Orleans. Wednesday, April 11th, 2018. A mild 64 degrees Fahrenheit, with a cool breeze. Cloud form covers the sky, and the lighting is dim. No sun. Just rain. And gray. 

Its four o’clock in the afternoon. The trees sway with the wind, and the rain strikes the ground on an angle. 

In a beige house on Industry St in the 7th Ward, with dilapidated windows, and opaque shutters, Scott lies on the couch. In one hand, a half-smoked cigarette. In the other, a used needle. Around his arm, a tourniquet.

For the 35th time today, someone calls his phone. 

Ringg! Ringgg!! Ringg! Ringgg!! Ri-

It goes to voicemail. 

An hour later, Scott rouses. Sluggish, like a sloth, he groans, and drops his cigarette as he instinctively begins to untie his arm. As he opens his crusty, bloodshot eyes, he looks down toward the table, and uses most of his energy to plop the needle onto the glass. It rolls off the table, and hits the dirty carpet without a sound. But it’s enough. 

“Every motha’ fuckin’ time…” Scott begins to snarl. 

As he sits up, he looks at the clock. 

“Oh. Fuck…”

He picks up his phone. There are too many notifications to display at once. 

He ignores the missed calls, emails, and voice messages. He goes into his text messages. 

Ruby (9:56 AM): Ayy, happy b-day cuz

Ruby (10:08 AM): You up yet? Me n tammy were wondering what u wanted to do td. 

Ruby (10:35 AM): Yo

Ruby (12:50 PM): Wake up

Ruby (1:07 PM): You dip last night?

Ruby (2 You told me this would stop.

Ruby (3 Can’t trust you for shit. Idk if i’m more upset with you or myself.

Ruby (4 This music shit? It’s over between us. You do you. Ima keep doing me.

The flood of mixed emotions overwhelms Scott. He throws his phone at the wall, and it goes right through, landing in a hole that was previously punched through, falling behind the drywall. 

“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!” Scott shouts. Enraged, he tosses the coffee table over, spilling loose powders, coins, needles, and multiple firearms all over the floor.  He drags himself to the wall, and kicks through it until the hole is big enough that he can stick half his body into it to grab his phone. There are so many cracks that the screen is barely useable. But it works.

He calls his cousin. He picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Yo, what the fuck is going on man. I overslept.” 

“Nah, yo. You got high all night, and all morning, and you passed the fuck out.”

“I told you I was done shootin’ Ruby. Why can’t you believe me?”

“Because you’re a blatant liar.” 

“How you gonna call me a liar and act extra on my motha’ fuckin’ birthday, like I was supposed to do you a favor.”

“Because I came to your house and pounded on your door. Twice. TWICE! The second time I stayed for almost a half hour bro. The neighbors came outside and told me they were gonna shoot me if I kept knocking. Tammy saw everything.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Okay. Even if I was passed out, so what if I do what I want on my birthday. Ain’t that the point?”

“I thought the point was to celebrate your life and cherish what you have with your friends. But you’re right. You should be allowed to do what you want. After all, you’re just gonna do what’s best for yourself, right? Lie to your family. Steal. Live, die a junkie. Fuck it, right?”

“First of all, I told you never to call me that again. Second, since when were you a preacher?”

“I’m not a preacher. You don’t have to be to call facts facts. You’re out of control, and maybe that’s my fault for letting you carry on like this all this time. Expecting it to be an act, or a phase, or you to get help. Or ask for it. Or even take it when it’s being offered to you. But you’re proving time and time again that all you’re going to do is lie to me, and put your relationships, career, and life in jeopardy. For drugs.” 

“So what, you just gonna up and walk away? Leave me like everyone else because you can’t stand me?” 

“I love you, Scott. That’s why this is happening. That’s why we’re having this conversation. If I didn’t care, or couldn’t stand you, it wouldn’t matter. Isn’t it obvious?”

Tears start to form in the corners of Scott’s eyes. He scratches them away with his dirty nails, and paces around the room, stepping over the broken glass.

“Don’t you think if it was as easy as just saying I’m good, I’d be good? It ain’t as simple as you say it is.”

“So check yourself into rehab. When you get out clean, we can talk about picking up where we left off.” 

Scott’s sullen eyes narrow, and his face bears a snarl as the comment reduces his sadness to anger.

“What the fuck did I tell you about the fact I ain’t goin to no MOTHA FUCKIN’ CLINIC!” 

There’s a long pause, as Scott huffs, and puts the phone back to his ear.

“I can get clean without a clinic. Just come over with Tammy. I’ll clean up, and we can-” 

The realization that his cousin hung up the phone before he began speaking kicks in. And the damage control ends. Scott doesn’t remember much about the night following that conversation. 

But after that moment, he packed up what was valuable to him, and shot a propane tank inside his gas stove from outside the house, and let it burn to the ground. He would move to a different part of the city, and purposefully neglect to tell anyone what happened. 

At first, there are rumors of Scott’s death, but these are quelled when he is seen around New Orleans. 

…

Friday. September 7th, 2018. The hour strikes noon, as Scott strolls down Paris Avenue. In his left hand, a double-cup from SONIC, that holds a mixture of Blueberry Slush and cough syrup. In his right hand, a lit Newport. He stops outside Adrian’s Bakery, to answer a phone call, when he’s met by a sight for sore eyes.

The past few months haven’t been pleasant. They haven’t been kind, bright, or hopeful. They’ve been hope-less. 

In the small time Scott quit doing music, he’s graduated from a small time thief to a shooter. He’s seen more heroin pass through New Orleans than he’d ever dreamt of. More bodies, too.

On the other hand, nothing seems different for his cousin, Ruby. As Scott notices him walking down Paris with Tammy, he can’t help but feel he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Ruby notices too, and immediately comes toward Scott, who rushes his conversation on the phone and hangs up.

“Scrim! Is that you?” 

“…Yea. Yea. It’s me. What’s up.”

“What’s up? Bro, I’ve been worried sick about you. You ain’t returnin’ calls from nobody. Straight up dodging everyone. It makes sense that you’d be upset, but we just wanna know you’re good. Sometimes that’s all you gotta say.”

“Oh. Word.” Scott looks around, and takes a long draw from his cigarette.

“Well. What’s up? I’m good, I guess.” 

Aristos raises an eyebrow. 

“Yea?”

Scott finishes his drink in one sip. He clears his throat.

“Yea. Yea yo. Just been doin me. Tryna lay low cause things are hot. You know?”

Aristos nods. Tammy interjects.

“Scott, were you gonna grab a bite to eat at Adrian’s? Because Aristos would really like for you to come in with us and talk.” 

As Scott’s eyes trail from hers’ to his cousin’s, he can see the pain in his eyes. The tears he’s holding back, by trying to act cool. It’s all… Overwhelming…So overwhelming…

Scott drops his empty cup, and flicks his cigarette as the levees break. Without a word, he pulls out his arms, and hugs his cousin, whom he hasn’t seen since March. They embrace, and as Scott closes his eyes and tucks into his cousin’s shoulder, he sobs. 

The passerby unaware, Tammy wipes her eyes, and opens the door, motioning for them both to come in and get out of the way.

The two pull themselves together, and walk in behind her. They sit at a booth, as Tammy orders for the three of them. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

“I’ve missed you too. Life ain’t the same without you.” 

“It’s not the same for me either.”

“This robbin’ shit? This trappin’ shit? It’s killing me, cuz.” 

“Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?”

“More than that. I shouldn’t talk about it.”

“You don’t have to. Let’s talk about something else.” 

“How’s the music shit going? You still rappin’?”

“Of course. That album we were working on…I uh…Actually finished it. It got cleared today, so it was released on streaming platforms. Spotify and shit. Even had a few billboards put up. One in Cali, one in New York City…”

“Damn…You really finished it?…Without me…Though?”

“I used everything you gave me before we…But there were pieces missing. I had to fill them in by myself.”

“Oh.”

There is a pause. Tammy comes back with a few pastries, and cups of coffee.

“Listen, Scott…You don’t have to live like this forever…I…Your friends understand that you’re trying to figure shit out on your own. That’s fine. But…Maybe I was too harsh to say we should stop working together…Like…”

Aristos chokes up, and clears his throat.

“We don’t want to push you away. We want you to know that we’re here for you, no matter how rough things get.” 

“Ruby…I…” 

But Scott’s train of thought is interrupted. Abruptly halted. Dead in its tracks. Despite being caught in the moment all this time, he realizes his guard has been down for over an hour. The synapses in his brain are firing in different directions. Signaling danger. Fear. Adrenaline. 

At first he’s confused. He’s with Tammy, and Ruby. There’s no danger here.

But there is danger. This is New Orleans. 

And without knowing any better, who else would look for the glint of steel, or carbon, in broad daylight? 

Scott has enough time to see a silhouette in the window before he drops to the ground, under the table. Chaos ensues.

The glass shatters like a spider web. It crinkles and cracks as it falls to the ground, and the store is filled with bright flashes and the patter of gunfire.

POP! POP! POPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOPPOP P-CLICK!

Screams fill the bakery, and before long, the only three left in the store are Scott, Aristos, and Tammie. Scott throws the table out of the way, and comes out from the cover he found haphazardly. He looks behind him, and the color floods from his face.

In a pool of blood lies Aristos. His eyes ajar, open. His body -motionless. Clutched by Tammy. 

“Naw…”  Scott squeaks. 

“This…Can’t be…” 

“Can’t you see we need you to call 911, you stupid fucking JUNKIE?” Tammy shrieks. 

“I…This…”

“Hurry up! He’s going to DIE!” 

…

“Hi, Mr. Arceneaux? This is Dr. Klein, from the trauma center. We wanted to…Uh… Give you an update on your cousin’s condition. Its, uh… It’s still critical. He’s slipped into a coma, and although he’s breathing, and the blood transfusions seem to be helping, he won’t be conscious for some time. We aren’t sure exactly how long he will be in this state, but we’re confident his condition is stabilizing, and he’s going to make it. Also, if you were looking to visit soon, uh…Tammy…Said she’d be leaving around 6 o’clock. I know you mentioned you didn’t want to be around her. Mr. Arceneaux? Hello?”

Silence. The phone clicks. Within moments, it falls out of Scott’s hand, and hits the linoleum floor. 

Scott is sitting in his bathtub, nude. Its filled to the brim with hot, red, soapy water. Razorblades, needles, a crack-pipe, a bottle of Herradura, and six bottles of pills lay scattered around a crudely built table next to the tub. There’s banging on the door, which only gets louder as Scott’s eyes roll back. 

But the knocking does not stop. It gets louder. Louder. Louder 

Until the door is broken off its hinges, left in pieces around the front lawn. 

“Scott? Scott?!” A familiar voice calls out. The voice approaches the bathroom door, and finds it locked. It wastes no time knocking, and instead breaks in. 

It would be none other than Richard Dunigan. A longtime mentor and friend to Scott. The one who brought Scott into the circles he now ran with. Dunigan himself was a shady individual with a disputed past. 

Though his actions would save, and perhaps forever preserve Scott’s life, there’s no telling why Dunigan did what he did. Those who are endowed with knowledge know that dark forces are at play in this world. There’s more than slavery, crime, or wanton destruction of the ecosystem afoot. Those who do not know, well…Ought to stay uninvolved.

But on the night of September 7th, 2018, Dunigan would involve Scott Arceneaux Jr. With the condition he found Scott in, Dunigan knew that there was only one thing he could do to potentially save his life. There was no time for triage, or a hospital, or even a phone call. 

As a patron of a great masquerade ball, who’s now taken off his costume, Dunigan does what is necessary to save his protege’s life. Thankfully, there are no witnesses. 

Dunigan would wait. Bide his time. But soon, his wishes were, perhaps, granted. Scott, still as stone in the tub, began to stir, eventually jerking forward. Though the change was not yet complete, a few things would be true forevermore. Firstly, Scott was hungry. Hungrier than he’d ever felt in his life. Hungry for things different than blood, meat, narcotics…His already teetering ability to control his impulses was at its limit. His lust to destroy, devour, and annihilate was overwhelming him. In the heat of this state, Scott seemed to even forget about his cousin, harboring nothing but impure, violent thoughts. His eyes were glazed over with a film of vitriol. His pupils sickly yellow. 

Above all, he was confused, especially when he turned around and saw Dunigan, who was bearing a toothy grin. 

To the surprise of them both, a third voice would interject. 

“Didn’t I warn y’all niggas that I’d shoot you if you didn’t keep the motha’ fuckin’ SOUND DOWN?” A man shouts. 

Dunigan doesn’t even react. He stands out of the way. He waits.

Scott sees the man standing in his house, holding a glock. Their fates are sealed.

Scott, nude, scars fresh and all, bounds out of the tub, and leaps towards the intruder like an animal. 

“W-What the FUCK!” the man cries out, firing his pistol, frightened. 

Was it unusual luck? Newfound dexterity? Fear making an easy task seem impossible? It matters not. The intruder misses, and his bullets stray into the walls behind. By the time he’s able to point in the right direction, Scott is on top of him, and literally rips the gun out of his hands. 

There are no words. Though there are sounds.

Wailing. Gnashing of teeth. Snarling. Scott bashes the man’s head against the ground, easily overpowering him. As they brawl on the ground, it doesn’t take much time for the intruder to become concussed and lose consciousness. But Scott’s bloodlust, wish for ire is not satiated. He continues to bash the intruder’s head, with his elbow, against the ground, with his fists, until the man’s face is caved in, and his skull cracks.

A few more punches, and Scott’s bloodied, broken hand goes clean through his skull. As he pulls his lodged fist out of the man’s face, he ignores the grey matter and brain that covers it. 

Embraced by a supernatural, carnal hunger for more, Scott doesn’t stop there. He sticks his face into the gaping wound of the corpse below him, and drinks of the blood held within, sucking down as much as he can given the absurd circumstances. 

Treating the man’s corpse like a chicken wing that must be stripped clean, Scott rips and tears, making sure to drink every drop he can, before what lies before him is no more than a drying pile of to-be-rotten meat.

Panting, covered in sweat, blood, grey matter, and more, Scott’s assault comes to an end. He stands up, and kicks the lifeless body away, so that he can walk around it, and sit on the couch. 

As he does so, Dunigan follows, and leans against the wall. 

Scott looks at Dunigan, a mix of emotions.

“How ya feelin’ Scott?”

“Richie, What the fuck. Fuck how I feel. What’s going on.” 

There’s laughter.

“Ight. Since you askin’. But you ain’t talkin’ till I’m done talkin’. Ya heard?”

“Yea. Go.”

“Worlds’ a lot darker than you thought. You think being a Suicide-Boy makes you hard? You think you a thug? A tough guy? A gangsta? Me and you? We ain’t shit compared to some of these niggas out there. Real talk, most folk are goons, pawns. What does that make us? Hell if I know. But there’s one thing we all got in common. We’re monsters. We eat niggas, drink their blood. That’s what keeps us alive now. Not just that. But it makes us strong. The more niggas you eat? The more power. Ya heard?” 

“You fuckin’ with me dog?” 

“What did you just do lil nigga?” 

“Killed a dude and ate his face.” 

“Welcome. We don’t all eat faces, but if that’s your bag, fuck it.” 

“What else do I got now?”

“You got the Brujah.”

…