Inspired by True Events
Jackson peered into the falling snow, hoping it would cover his sins. But tonight, the sky seemed to mock him with its gentle flurry. Everything had gone south. It all started with a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver pressed against his back.
“You do see the irony in this, right Asher?” Jackson's voice rasped.
“No talkin’,” Asher snapped, shoving the gun deeper.
“I bought that gun for you. It was a gift, and now—”
Asher jabbed the muzzle into his spine. “You goin’ deaf?”
“Naw, man. It’s just, I know I don’t have anything to lose at this point. Someone’s going to die tonight and I sure as hell don’t intend on it being me.”
“Then you’d better stick to the plan and keep your mouth shut.”
Jackson zipped up his old leather jacket. Snow fell thicker. He stood ankle-deep in it, socks soaked and shoelaces frozen stiff. He stomped his feet, trying to warm his body, memories of his mother forcing those ugly yellow and black galoshes on him flooding back. She'd always say, Are their mothers gonna pay the doctor bills so that you can look cool?
Earlier that night, Jackson drove around the city in a beat-up ’74 Cutlass Supreme with Asher and his right-hand man, Digger. They were doing Asher’s dirty work: collections, enforcements, drug pick-ups, and drop-offs. Jackson sensed something was off but went along anyway.
They ended up in Chapel Hill, where Asher stripped him of his weapon and phone and led him into an alley. Asher handed him a knife and told him, “If you want into the gang, you gotta kill the first person that comes by or else you leave in a body bag.”
Ninety days ago, Jackson joined Asher’s gang. Tonight was his initiation. He'd heard rumors: theft, beatdowns, sex for girls, even maiming someone. But murder? That was extreme, even for Asher, known for his unhinged behavior. They called his outbursts A-bombs.
Jackson’s head pounded. Murder? I didn’t sign up for this shit! But he was trapped. If he didn’t follow through, Asher would put him in the hospital, or worse.
Jackson's muscles tensed. He thought about crushing Asher's skull with his elbow. Then he saw the gleam of a rifle scope from across the street.
Digger.
No way out.
“How long are we gonna wait?” Jackson asked, searching for a loophole.
“All night if that’s what it takes. That okay with you?”
Jackson smirked. “Well, if I got a choice—”
“You ain’t. So, shut up.” Asher slapped the back of his head.
Jackson kept quiet. The Chapel Hill district was notorious for its crime. Nobody would care about one dead kid.
An empty beer can clunked past Jackson’s feet, the wind carrying the stench of garbage. It reminded him of the decaying apartments his mother dragged him to as a kid so she could get high. He stomped his feet again, trying to warm up. He remembered how his father would always pick them up from those places, his mother passed out in the backseat.
Jackson’s past was filled with wrong choices.
Now, he was stuck making another.
His brother Stevie had looked out for him, but after Stevie died in a car crash, Jackson's world unraveled. His mother turned to hard drugs, and Jackson turned to the streets. He met Asher in the projects, both boys bonding over their lost brothers.
“Hey, Asher. How long have we known each other?” Jackson asked. “Wait, don’t tell me. Four, no, five years?”
“I don’t know. What are we, datin’? You lookin’ for an anniversary gift or somethin’?”
Jackson laughed. “No. Just that, we’re family. Brothers. Right? I spent years looking up to you. You looked out for me. So, why the A-bomb tonight? With me?”
“You want in?” Asher shot back. “You gotta earn it like everyone else.”
Jackson had joined Asher’s gang reluctantly, agreeing only if he wasn’t involved in drugs. Personal reasons, he’d said. Asher didn’t flinch.
Now Jackson realized the irony.
He hated drugs but was addicted to the need to feel wanted.
“No exceptions, Jacky-boy,” Asher snarled. “I don’t care how popular you are.”
Popular? Jackson had never thought of himself that way.
Is this about jealousy?
He rubbed his forehead. He hated the nickname Jacky-boy. His mother used it when she was mad at him, which was often.
A car slid to a stop thirty feet away.
“Who is it?” Asher asked.
“Can’t tell. Too much snow.”
“Don’t be lyin’ to me. Digger knows what to do if you are.”
Jackson craned his neck. “You wanna switch places? I’m telling you, there’s too much snow to see. Now, be quiet.”
A car door slammed shut and a small figure stood by the passenger door.
“You’re up, Jacky-boy. Remember—”
“Yeah, yeah. Digger.” Jackson swallowed hard, gripping his knife.
“Easy, Jacky-boy,” Asher whispered. “Don’t start thinkin’ for yourself. Just do what you’re supposed to.”
The car door creaked open.
“I don’t think this is the building, Dad,” a girl shouted into the car.
“Well, get inside before you catch a cold then,” a voice inside the car answered.
The door slammed shut and tires spun in the snow.
Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. The situation had become too real.
There’s no way I can do this.
If she hadn’t gotten into the car...
He needed a way out before someone else showed up.
He wished he could bail. He’d gladly take a beating. The thought of starting fresh filled him with relief. No gang. No dysfunctional family. A new life.
A flicker of light from across the street caught his eye again.
Digger.
A dog barked at the end of the alley. The wind blasted snow against Jackson’s cheeks. A shiver ran down his spine.
Frustrated, Jackson drifted away. His mind replayed the choices that led him here.
So many wrong choices.
If only I’d refused to go with my mother to the projects. If only I’d spent more time with Dad in his cab instead.
He visualized his favorite family vacation to calm his nerves.
Canobie Lake Park, New Hampshire.
Stevie dragged him onto the Turkish Twist ride over and over. Jackson threw up, ruining fried dough for him. But that day had been his favorite.
The memory made him smile, and his muscles relaxed.
An apartment door nearby opened and slammed shut. A woman shouted from a window above, “Marcus! Don’t go far and keep an eye on your little brother.”
“I know, Mom,” a little voice whined.
Jackson had lost track of time. The snow had thinned.
Fear swept through him.
His cover was nearly gone.
A moment later, a little boy and his older brother turned the corner, staring up at Jackson.
They reminded him of himself and Stevie.
These are just kids.
Jackson peeled himself from the wall, using his large frame to block Asher’s view.
They don’t deserve to die.
“RUN!” Jackson yelled, raising his arms like a madman.
The kids screamed and ran.
Jackson heard a door open and slam shut.
Safe.
For tonight anyway.
Jackson let his instincts take over. He whirled around, leading with his right elbow. It connected with Asher’s head.
A loud crack.
Asher slumped to the ground.
Jackson spun and ran down the alley. He slipped in the snow.
A gunshot rang out, hitting his leg.
Pain exploded, but he kept going.
“Don’t look back.”
The second shot hit his back, forcing him to one knee.
He screamed, collapsing.
Digger loomed over him.
“Coward,” he spat, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.
Jackson struggled to breathe.
“Why?”
Digger knelt beside him, sneering.
“Asher wanted you dead. He knew you wouldn’t kill nobody. We brought you here ’cause nobody cares about a dead gangbanger in Chapel Hill.”
Jackson coughed blood.
“Why?”
“Asher found out who killed his brother. Your drunk-driving brother, Stevie. Somebody’s gotta pay, so that’s you.”
Jackson shook his head, tears blurring his vision.
Digger stood and walked away. Jackson lay helpless, watching Digger check on Asher before running off.
Jackson tried to move but could only lift his head.
The snow picked up, covering his numbed body.
Coward.
Digger’s words echoed.
Jackson didn’t feel like a coward.
“I did the right thing,” he whispered. “I saved those kids.”
He licked the snow off his lips and closed his eyes.
For the first time, he felt at peace, knowing he had finally made the right choice.
