27. Shad
Shad
I can’t rot in bed. Not when I have a show tomorrow.
BirchFest to be specific. The bros worked so hard on this, and I’m headlining the last night. My last show before I take a break.
I gotta get my mind right.
How do I look being on Wyn’s case about kicking her demons when I haven’t upheld my promise.
But how the fuck I’m supposed to go to therapy? Tell them all my bullshit? Besides all the blood on my hands, my growing celebrity status means no fucking privacy.
281, 282, 283…
Dal gave me her and Nut’s therapist’s number. That nigga swears by it. And I love my bro, but he the most fucked up nigga I know. Well, besides Rico.
So I gotta try. Brina and Autumn been on my case, and if I don’t make something shake, I know it’s only a matter of time before they tell my bros why I been shaded off.
Not that they’d care. Not foreal.
298, 299, 300. Ping
My phone notification goes off just as I finish my pushups. I stopped going to the gym but I’m back on it. I need endorphins in any way possible, and with Sahara talks about wanting kids, I ain’t had sex in awhile. She’s tripping.
She knows what happened to my family, and her solution is to make a new one. But her ass been on one ever since she got IG famous from being my girlfriend.
We barely hanging on, and she wants to introduce a baby into that. Does she not remember we met in a psych class?
I get off the floor and wipe my face before I go to my computer station.
A condition of Brina and Autumn not blasting my business is me moving in with Nut and Dal in their in-law apartment on top of their garage.
I configured the electrical system to handle my station, and I can’t lie, it’s nice knowing someone’s around even when I wanna be alone.
I find the program that’s pinging me since I have so many simultaneously running.
It’s the one sharpening the video of Set’s shooting.
I didn’t think it would take over three months to get it clear, but the camera feed was so pixelated and corrupted we were lucky to be able to tell the direction of the shots.
Now today, the thumbnail of the video is crystal clear. I press play and slow it down to a frame by frame speed.
When a familiar face leans out the window, I pause the video.
The driver’s a woman. Dark skinned from her tone in the black and white feed, with bright–probably blonde–short hair. She’s looking at the passenger shooter crazy.
The nigga looks constipated. Eyes bulging as he hangs out the window, aiming for who I know is my brother.
I’ve seen that look before. Back when we had to step on a nigga.
I print the frame and bring the glossy paper to my face closer like it'll change the outcome.
Like the face will change.
But no, that’s my old bro, at one point, my best friend, shooting at my brother.
Brina’s ex, Sincere.