HARDNOCK LIFE - by Success Uwakwe

Chapter Two: The Weight of the WorldThe city never slept. Micah realized this as he lay awake in the narrow bed at the group home, staring at the cracked ceiling like it held answers. Sirens wailed in the distance. Somewhere beneath the rhythmic hum of traffic, a dog barked. Then the echo of something sharper — maybe a gunshot. He’d learned not to flinch. Not here. Not anymore. Since his parents died, silence had become an old memory. The quiet of their apartment, filled with jazz records and smells from Mama’s slow-cooked meals, was gone. Replaced by the chaos of system living. The group home was loud, always. Boys arguing over bathroom time. Staff shouting commands with tired authority. Even the walls seemed to groan at night. Micah’s eyes burned, but he didn’t cry. Crying was a luxury here. Tears were currency, and you paid in bruises if you let them fall. The next morning, Micah dressed quickly. Hoodie, jeans, and the same busted sneakers he’d had for two years. The soles flapped if he ran too hard, so he walked slow. Slower than he liked. Slower than he used to. He grabbed his backpack — mostly empty, except for a tattered sketchpad, a broken pencil, and a granola bar from the kitchen. Breakfast was served at 7:00 a.m., but he never made it in time. The older kids pushed to the front. The staff never stopped them. He didn’t complain. There were worse things than hunger. School wasn’t far, but Micah walked the long way. Through alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads where cops sat in cruisers watching every move. Where older kids from other crews waited for someone to press. To test. To make an example. Micah wasn’t in a crew. Not yet. But that didn’t matter. If you were out here alone, you were prey. And the streets? They always hunted. He reached East Haven High just before the bell. Concrete walls. Metal detectors. Security guards built like linebackers and a student body hardened by circumstances no textbook could explain. Micah kept his head down as he entered. Teachers didn’t expect much from kids like him. He knew that. He wasn’t stupid. Not invisible, but close. And that was the way he liked it. Fly low. Stay off the radar. Get through the day. One step at a time. Third period was Art. The only class that made Micah feel real. Ms. Kenner didn’t look at him like he was a problem waiting to happen. She looked at him like he had something to say. Like maybe he could be more than a shadow. Today she handed out charcoal and said, “Draw something that matters.” Micah didn’t speak. He rarely did in class. But he sketched fast. Lines came easy, like the shapes were already there, hiding in the page. He drew a boy on a rooftop. Alone. Staring at the city skyline, holding a paper crown. Ms. Kenner stopped behind him, quiet. “This is… powerful,” she said. Micah shrugged. He didn’t know what to say. She leaned down and whispered, “You see things clearly, Micah. That’s rare. Don’t lose it.” He didn’t answer, but her words stayed with him all day. After school, Micah didn’t go straight back to the group home. He wandered the streets, walking through neighborhoods caught between decay and defiance. Murals painted over graffiti. Flowers growing from sidewalk cracks. Old men playing chess on milk crates. Corner boys watching every move. He turned onto Jefferson, where Mr. Raheem kept a small convenience store. The bell above the door chimed as Micah stepped in. “Little man,” Raheem greeted from behind the counter. “Still alive, huh?” “Barely,” Micah replied, half-smiling. Raheem was one of the few who didn’t treat him like a burden. He always let Micah read old comics from the rack and never said anything when he slipped an extra granola bar in his hoodie. “You hungry?” Micah nodded. Raheem tossed him a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “On the house.” Micah caught it and mumbled, “Thanks.” Raheem waved a hand. “Just keep your head on a swivel. Streets been talking.” “About what?” Raheem glanced out the window. “Same thing they always talk about — money, power, and who’s stupid enough to chase both.” Micah ate in silence, seated on a crate near the back wall. The store smelled like incense and old wood. It reminded him of his father’s study. Books. Jazz. Quiet. Safe. That night, back at the home, everything went sideways. Dante, one of the older boys, started something in the common room. Threw a chair. Screamed at a staff member. Said he wasn’t going back to lockup. Said they’d have to kill him first. Micah stayed in his room. He heard the struggle. The yelling. The sound of boots on tile. He clenched his fists. That feeling — helplessness — rose again. That same weight he’d carried since the accident. Since the hospital. Since they told him they couldn’t save his mother. The world wasn’t fair. It wasn’t gentle. And no one was coming to rescue him. But he could change something. He had to. The next morning, Ms. Kenner pulled him aside after class. “I entered your drawing in a contest,” she said. Micah’s eyes widened. “What contest?” “Citywide. Theme was ‘Urban Youth Expression.’ They’re hosting a show this Friday at the community center.” “You didn’t ask me.” “I knew you’d say no.” Micah frowned. “I don’t have anything nice to wear.” “Then we’ll find you something.” He hesitated, heart racing. “What if I lose?” She smiled. “Then you lose loud. Proud. The kind of loss that makes people remember your name.” Micah nodded slowly. Maybe he could do this. Maybe this was the start of something real.

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