"we fell in love the way you fall in leaves."
Juwan "Rocky" Rockwell has had a pretty hard life. Between trying to find a way to fend for himself and dealing with the normal hardships of teenage angst, he had nowhere to turn as an adolescent and no...
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"addicts & cowards"
Three weeks. Three fucking weeks and no sign of Violet anywhere. When I called, she didn't pick up. When I paged, she never called. I almost popped up at her place on several occasions, but every time I would start to, either business or daddy duties would pop up.
The shit was frustrating. I needed to get my stash of coke and get to the bottom of why she bailed on me. Eventually, I did. After a day of dealing, I headed straight to her brownstone to confront her.
I was buzzed inside and marched right up to her door, where she was standing with a smile.
"Hey, Rocky. Oh, you cut your hair! You look—" "Where the fuck have you been?" I asked. "What?" her smile weakened a little. "Don't play fucking dumb with me, Violet. While you've been doing who knows what, I was sitting in jail, calling you! I mean— we did have a date. You should've at least picked up for that reason," I was immediately bombarding her, and by the frown on her face, I could tell she wasn't too fond of my tone.
"I've been busy, trying to get the show togeth—" "Why the fuck are you lying to me?" I took a step closer to her, making her step away.
I stared at her for a moment, her eyes avoiding mine.
"I get it. . . You wanna' get down with me, but don't wanna' stay down for me. I get it," I nodded. Her eyes found mine, her eyebrows furrowing at my accusation.
"Your image of me is basically your art personified. . . I'm your heartbreak in a graveyard. I'm everything ugly and unfortunate— and I'm a nigga from the slums on top of that, so there's a way for you to get back at your racist ass parents. . . but the best part is that you don't have to deal with the reality that comes with being ugly and unfortunate. You're close enough to romanticize it. You're close enough to fall in love with the image you've created in your head of it. You're close enough to fuck it, but you're not too close. . . that's the best part because you wouldn't know how to deal with it, if you were— because you're still just that spoiled ass brat without a cause, just like you were in high school. That's all you'll ever be," I shook my head.
"Juwan—" "Let me just tell you one thing, B. . . I ain't your motherfuckin' heartbreak in a graveyard. I'm the drive-by up the block. I'm the funeral for a kid. I'm the fucking jail time that plagues people that look like me. Who you think I am and who I actually am are two completely different people. . . and I guess the same could be said about you," I shook my head.
"Juwan, just listen to me, okay?" "Nah, I'm done with this shit, man. I'ma just get my shit and go," I started to brush past her as I made my way into her home.
"Wait, Rocky," she grabbed a hold on my jacket, attempting to withhold me from walking past her. "I'm sorry."
"Nah, don't apologize. I already knew who you were, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt. That's on me," I was nonchalant with my words, prying her hands off of me so I could continue toward her studio. "Honey, please. Can we sit and talk about this? I mean— the show is so close, and you've worked so hard on your works. It shouldn't go to waste because of what's going on between us," she whimpered.
