Black Waters (Frank Ocean Love Story)

Chapter 八

Christopher's View.  ▲ †

Ghosts. Ghosts and cocaine and murder. Old memories, disappearing dead ends…That day was not a good day.

I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would not use coke again, not after the incident. But I did it. I don’t even remember doing it, actually. All that’s left in my mind is… Ghosts and cocaine and murder, old memories, disappearing dead ends…

Then zero. There’s nothing else.

But at least I remember all the important things. Especially getting to Griff’s place. The only thing I felt there was pure, potent death. That was no one’ s fault but mine. I put that death there. I made it happen. I did it.

I killed him.

It was for my own good, though. If I hadn’t killed Griff, he would’ve killed me. Even the police, who let me go after a few days, understood that. If he hadn’t provoked me directly, the cocaine he had been sneaking to me every other day would do the job.

But my mind and heart are completely different. My mind is telling me to shut up and forget about it, the police let me go, Griff had it coming…but my heart knows what really happened. I keep all my real thoughts there. The fake, petty ones go up in my head just in case one of these days the zombies walking around here figure out how to read my mind. I can’t risk letting my darkest secrets be exposed.

My heart knows.

“Ay, y’all seen Griff?” I asked the daily crew on the steps of 529 Dawle Street. They all shook their heads, besides one of them.

“He came in last night, I’ve been here since then. I ain’t see him come back out.” He said. I thanked him and walked past them and into the building. This might be one of the most ghetto buildings around here. It always had that fish and piss smell, always had loud music and drug dealers and hookers, always had teens like me trying to get involved in it all.

I walked up stairs.

The door was unlocked, which was unusual. I knocked hard. No response. I knocked again and the door pushed slightly open, so I let myself in and closed it behind me.

This was Griff’s place, the grand plaza of cocaine in the hood. There were usually tables in his living room with plastic bags filled with pretzels, and underneath each table had garbage bags filled with the real product—snow white coke. But today all the bags filled with coke were up on the tables, and the misleading pretzels were gone.

So what if I was 5-O? I’d just come in and see a thousand reasons to arrest the guy that lived here and everyone else in the building?

Something was up.

“Griff, where you at?” I called hesitantly. Nothing. “Griff, your door was unlocked. Why is the blondie exposed on the table?” Still, no response.

I walked to the bedroom at the back, which is usually occupied by Griff’s customers banging out. I pressed my ear against the door, but didn’t hear the usual moans and groans. The bathroom was empty, too. I walked into the bedroom, doubting that Griff was even in here (he says he doesn’t like the vibe that the prostitutes leave in here). But there he was, rummaging through the drawers on his dresser.

“Man, you got me worried for a second. What’s up with you?” I asked. He stopped what he was doing and shot me a hard look.

“Chris, man. I’m being as serious as I can when I say this: get out.” Griff said sternly. I knew why he was a little irritated; every other day I come to Griff for my coke, and I went to him yesterday. I’m not supposed to be here today.