Page 1 of The Price of My Sins
A year earlier
My room was dark, the quiet stillness broken only by the low hum of the worn-out window fan. I lay on my back, eyes half-closed, tangled in the sheets, my body heavy with sleep. The world outside my room was quiet, until I heard my mama scream. It tore through the night like a jagged shard of glass, so loud and desperate that it yanked me from my dreams like a hand pulling me out of water.
It wasn’t the first time. No, I had grown used to the sound of my mother’s voice rising in fear, her words twisted and choked by the violence of the arguments between her and my father. But this scream—it wasn’t the usual yelling or cursing. It was raw. It was pleading. She was begging for him to stop.
I froze for a moment, my heart slamming against my ribs, the warmth of the blankets wrapped around me like an iron cage. But the scream came again, and it snapped me to my feet. My bare feet hit the cold floor, the chill in the house biting through the thin fabric of my pajamas.
I rushed down the hallway, my mind racing and my chest tight with panic. The living room was dimly lit, only a faint glow from the streetlight outside seeping through the blinds, castinglong shadows against the walls. I didn’t stop running. As soon as I reached the doorway, I saw them.
My father was there, looming over my mother as she lay on the couch, her body curled up defensively, her face twisted in pain. His uniform was still on, the badge reflecting faint light, his hands hovering over her like a storm ready to break. His voice was low, angry, barely a whisper, but its force was enough to rattle the walls.
“Stop!” my mother screamed as my father delivered another smack to her face. Her hand raised in a desperate plea, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t listening.
“Bitch!” He hissed before landing another slap on my mother’s face. Her lip was busted, and her eyes were almost swollen shut. “I thought I told you to have my food hot and ready when I got home!” My father’s words slurred, so I knew he’d been drinking.
I stood there for a second—frozen. My father, the man I once admired, the one I thought could protect us, was the one causing the pain. I never imagined it would come to this. But at that moment, something inside me snapped. I couldn’t watch it happen anymore. He had hurt her, hurt us for too long.
“Get off her!” I screamed, my voice breaking.
My father's eyes flicked to me, his face twisted in confusion for a split second as if he couldn’t comprehend the fact that I was standing there challenging him. But that moment of hesitation was enough. I pushed forward, my legs carrying me across the room before I could second-guess myself. I didn’t even know what I was going to do. But it didn’t matter. I had had enough of him putting his hands on my mother, his wife.
“Or what? What are you going to do, punk?” my father barked, his voice taunting.
I didn’t reply. I knew I couldn’t take him; he was twice my size. But I’d die to protect my mama. For years, he has beenabusing her and me, and I was tired. I could see the anger flash in his eyes, the rage boiling beneath the surface. But I wasn’t afraid anymore. I stepped forward, my fists clenched, ready to fight—ready to protect her. But before anything could happen, my mother’s voice broke through the tension.
“Please, Boris. Go back to your room, baby…” Her voice was weak and fragile, but it was enough to pull my focus back to her. She was trembling, her face bloody and tear-streaked. At that moment, I realized I wasn’t just fighting him. I was fighting for my mother—for all the nights I had watched her suffer in silence, too afraid to act.
“Nah. He ain’t going nowhere!” my father stated, his voice laced with venom. “You think you tough, little nigga? you think you can take me?” He chuckled menacingly. My eyes danced around the room, looking for anything to protect me, but there was nothing that would stop him. He was too big. It would take a lot to stop his three-hundred-plus-pound frame.
My father lunged at me with terrifying speed, catching me off guard. His body slammed into mine, sending me crashing to the ground. The impact knocked the air from my lungs, but there was no time to recover. We grappled on the carpet, tangled in a brutal, chaotic mess of limbs. Fists collided with flesh, each blow harder than the last. I tried to push him off first, then I tried to fight back, but his strength was overwhelming. He pinned me down, every movement fueled by his anger.
I could hear my mother screaming for him to stop. However, it only fueled his anger. My father, the man I used to love, was trying to kill me. When he wrapped his gigantic hands around my neck, I struggled to breathe as I went in and out of consciousness. I could see my mother pounding on my father’s back, pleading for him to stop. In the midst of the chaos, my father’s gun fell from his holster. Thinking quietly, I reached for the heavy metal, hands shaking as I placed my finger on thetrigger and stuck it into my father’s side. I couldn’t undo the past, but I could stop it here.
Pop!
I jolted awake—my breathing heavy and chest tight. The same nightmare that had haunted me for twenty years crashed into me like a wrecking ball, dragging me right back to that night. My hands trembled as I wiped the sweat off my brow. The air felt thick like it always does when I wake from the hot, suffocating echo of a loud pop.
I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to block it all out, but that shit never worked. The images always came flooding back no matter what I did to block them. The yelling and my mom’s screams never seemed to stop. I could still hear it in my ears. I could still see my father’s face, twisted and furious while my mother cowered on the couch.
I swallowed hard and swung my legs over the side of the bed, trying to shake the memories loose. My feet hit the cool tiled floor, and the chill cut through me like a knife, grounding me. There ain’t a day that goes by where it doesn't eat at me. This guilt—it sits on my chest. I couldn’t take a full breath without feeling it twist in deeper. My mama’s behind bars because of me—because she chose to protect her son. Because she loved me that damn much.
I reached for my guitar beside the bed, its familiar weight bringing a sense of comfort. The old wooden one, the one my mother had bought me when I was just a boy, sat on the shelf nearby, its edges worn and chipped with time. I couldn’t bring myself to part with it, though. Over the years, I’d collected a few guitars, each with its own story. But this one, the one in my hands now, was a special custom-made replica of the first guitar I ever had. It was exactly as the one I got when I was seven.
At first, it had been nothing more than a way to drown out the noise, a distraction to escape the tension in the house. Ididn’t know how to play back then. I just strummed the strings clumsily, trying to find a rhythm to steady my restless mind. Each awkward chord had been a small refuge, a brief pause from the chaos in my life.
I closed my eyes, ran my fingers over the neck of the guitar, and began to play my mother’s favorite gospel song. It was the song she sang to me every night after she would tuck me into bed. I could almost hear her voice, soft and steady, as it used to echo through the quiet of our apartment when I was just a kid.
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”
Her words came back to me, clear as day. She’d sing it to me every night before bed, her voice a lullaby that wrapped itself around me like a warm blanket. I never really understood the full meaning back then, but I felt it. I always did. The comfort of her voice, the peace in those moments when nothing in the world mattered. It was just me and her.
When I finish strumming the last chord on my guitar, the sound fades, but the heaviness in my chest doesn’t. Music usually helps. It’s the only thing that speaks the language of what I feel. But tonight, even the strings can’t calm what’s stirring inside me.
It was like I was moving on autopilot as I headed to the shower. The water’s hot, almost too hot, but I don’t flinch. I let it run over my skin as if it can wash away everything I’m carrying. The shame, the anger, the memories that won’t leave me the fuck alone. But it doesn’t. It never does.
By the time my shower was over, I felt I needed some air. The walls felt like they were closing in on me. Not the kind that fills your lungs but the kind that numbs your thoughts.
I got dressed and ended up at some strip club called Club Paradise in uptown Manhattan. It was packed at one in the morning. The loud, dark environment lit in red and purple glow that matched the energy I was trying to disappear into. I headedstraight to the bar. The bartender gives me a nod before asking me for my drink of choice. I ordered a few shots of Fuego Blanco tequila. I downed the first one without blinking. The second one went down slower.
