So...the author feels that she owes an explanation as to why she's starting YET ANOTHER STORY, so she will give it.

Alright. Said author has frequent...er...mood swings. Yeah, let's go with that. So, said author often has times when her mood is not-so-perky (although not as often as back in the day). About a month ago, author was in one of these "moods" when she began to write a clusterfuck of ideas and dialogue and plot scenarios that didn't fit into any of the other stories she was doing at the time. So, said author put them in their own little file and saved them. She continued to update her already posted stories, but found that when her mood got down or she was in the throes (that word choice seems super awkward) of insomnia, she'd go back to that little file and work on things. She'd tweek them around. She'd add more seemingly insignificant dialogue.

And then, something happened. Said author discovered that she liked the file that was slowly turning into a story so much because not only was it an outlet for her personal feelings, it was also the story of so many other people around the globe. Maybe not scenario wise (although a few of these might be relateable), but emotional wise. Said author is sure that somewhere within all this are feelings that every reader (or at least most) could relate to at one point or another. It's not a story about rainbows and butterflies. It's not a story about a bunch of emos. It's simply a story that many of us already know: friendship. Friends who think they know everything there is to know about one another, only they can't begin to imagine what the other person goes through. There's good times, bad times...more bad times...god, this is some sappy sounding shit. Whatever. At its best you'll be going "Oh SNAP!"

At its worst, you'll want to throw your computer out the window.

Point is, I made a new story. It wasn't one I ever planned on publishing. But who knows? Maybe someone will like it. Whatever. Deal with it.

;)

Disclaimer: I don't own the Boondocks

Redemption

Walk away.

He couldn't do it. If he did then he'd look the very way he'd been trying to avoid appearing as; a coward. He'd be a joke. A punk. Turning around, taking the path from which he'd come, wasn't an option.

They surrounded him, nearly pressing down on all sides. He lifted his chin, refusing to let the conflicting feelings that were surging inside of him come pouring out. He didn't know what he felt at the moment, to be honest. Fear? Anger? Regret?

Nuh uh. He regretted nothing. Wasn't that what people always said to do? Live life with no regrets?

Then again, this wasn't really living, was it?

"You can't leave." The boy in the center shook his head, his face menacing. He glared back. "I don' even know why yo ass would try."

It was true. Once you got in you couldn't just roll up out of there. It didn't work that way. You were with them until the day you died. He'd thought it was what he wanted. He'd been wrong. Somehow he'd convinced himself that he could just bow out and not be missed, but they found him. They always found him.

How disappointed would everyone be when they found him? How would they react? Would they feel sorry for him? Or would they simply chalk him off as another lost cause that couldn't be saved? Would his own family care?

Would she care?

Redemption. It was what he'd silently been searching for, what he'd desperately craved. This wasn't the way to do it. This hadn't been the way to live his life. Why was he just seeing that when it was all too late for him?

"You gon say somethin?" The boy stepped closer, the others taking it as a hint to do the same. The circle tightened around him, threatening to suffocate him. The boy's eyes hardened as he glared at him. "You gon just stand there and look like a bitch nigga?"

Walk away.

It was too late. He shook his head, vaguely aware of the hazy downpour that had begun. It lightly misted everything around them, chilling his already cold body to the core.

Run.

He snorted, shaking his head. How stupid. How fucking stupid of him to think that doing exactly what people told him not to do was clever. How dumb to try and forge his own path this way. How moronic to try and be so different from those around him that he resorted to this.

"I guess he think we ain' good enough ta talk to no more, ya'll," the boy said with a sneer, turning around to glance at the others. "Since he ain' gon be one of us then we ain' worth talkin' to."

"I ain't say all that."

"You ain' got to!" The boy shook his head. "You said dat shit tha second you tried ta ease yo punk ass back ta whereva yo ass came from!" He snorted. "You can't go back. You ain't gonna go back."

Run.

"Betta rethink yo decision, son," a quiet voice came from behind him. He slowly turned his head to see one of the others, one of the few who had felt the same as he had, his face filled with regret. "Betta quit."

The boy nodded. "You heard him." He turned back around to look at him. He shrugged. "You gotta choice. Leave or stay. Live or die." He straightened. "So, what's it gon be?"

'Every minute is a choice. Every second is a choice.'

The words echoed in his mind before he could even stop them, so familiar and so loud it was as if they were being verbally spoken. They pressed down on all four sides of his mind until they were all he could think, all he could feel.

'To live or not to live.'

He closed his eyes.

' To be or not to be.'

He opened his eyes again, narrowing them towards the leader, towards the very person who held his short life in his cold hands.

'You always have a choice. Always.'

He didn't want to die. But he didn't want to live like this. He was done with hurting those around him. He was done with hurting himself.

And he was sorry. He was so, so sorry.

"I'm out."

The words left his mouth with relative ease, his chest deflating and his shoulders slumping as he felt a burden lift off his shoulders. He was free. In this moment, in this time and space, he was finally free.

It was just too bad it wouldn't last. The boy shook his head, slowly lifting his hand so that the black weapon gleamed eerily in the moonlight. He stood his ground, refusing to spend his last moments being afraid. He took in the cold air around him, the feel of his wet t shirt that was plastered to his skin, how it felt as his breath entered and left his lungs. He felt the steady, rhythmic pulse of his heartbeat in his chest.

'I ain't gots no heart ta give. I ain't got time fo dat shit.'

He wondered if she truly knew how she was the only one who had ever truly owned it. His thoughts all fled as he heard the click of a gun. He looked up in time to see the boy press his finger on the trigger, shrugging. He sighed, as if pained from what he was about to do. He shook his head.

"I'm sorry."

There was a blast. And then, there was nothing.

...Huh. Well.

...?

-Kelsey