a Saturday night special shoved through the open window of a stolen
Toyota Celica. The finger on the trigger had belonged to a close
personal friend--or as near to a close personal friend as a
thirteen-year-old thief could claim on Baltimore's bad streets.
The bullets missed his heart. Not by much, but in later years Phillip
considered it just far enough.
That heart, young and strong, if sadly jaded, continued to beat as he
lay, his blood pouring out over the used condoms and crack vials in the
stinking gutter on the corner of Fayette and Paca.
The pain was obscene, like sharp, burning icicles stabbing into his
chest. But that grinning pain refused to take him under, into the
release of unconsciousness. He lay awake and aware, hearing the screams
of other victims or bystanders, the squeal of brakes, the revving
engines, and his own ragged and rapid breathing.
He'd just fenced a small haul of electronics that he stole from a
third-story walk-up less than four blocks away. With two hundred fifty
dollars in his pocket, he had swaggered down to score a dime bag to help
him get through the night. Since he'd just been sprung from ninety days
in juvie for another B and E that hadn't gone quite so smoothly, he was
out of the loop. And out of cash.
Now it appeared he was out of luck.
Later he would remember thinking, Shit, oh, shit, this hurts! But he
couldn't seem to wrap his mind around another thought. He'd gotten in
the way. He knew that. The bullets weren't meant for him, in particular.
He'd caught a glimpse of the gang colors in that frozen three seconds
before the gun had fired. His own colors, when he bothered to associate
himself with one of the gangs who roamed the streets and alleys of the
city.
If he hadn't just popped out of the system, he wouldn't have been on
that corner at that moment. He would have been warned to stay clear, and
he wouldn't be sprawled on the street, staring into the dirty mouth of
the gutter while his lifeblood pumped out of him.
Lights flashed--blue, red, white. Dully, he watched them turn the gutter
trash into bright, nasty gifts. The scream of sirens pierced through
human screams. Cops. Even through the slick haze of pain, his instinct
was to run. In his mind he sprang up--young, agile, street-smart and
melted into the shadows. But even at the effort of the thought, cold
sweat slid down his face.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, fingers probing until they reached the
thready pulse in his throat.
This one's breathing. Get the paramedics over here.
Someone turned him over. The pain was unspeakable, but he couldn't
release the scream that ripped through his head. He saw faces swimming
over him, the hard eyes of the cop, the grim ones of the medical
technician. Red, blue, and white lights burning his eyes. Someone wept
in high, keening sobs.
Hang in there, kid.
Why? He wanted to ask why. It hurt to be there. He was never going to
escape as he'd once promised himself he would. What was left of his life
was running red into the gutter. What had come before was only ugliness.