"Gang violence in America is not a sudden problem. It has been a part of urban life for years, offering an aggressive definition and identity to those seeking a place to belong in the chaos of large metropolitan areas." -Dave Reichert

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//11:00 p.m.//

Damon pushed open the glass doors of the 24 hour gym, his duffel bag hitting his side. He was greeted with a gust of ice cold fresh air, and he stopped to zip up his jacket before continuing. Fishing his earphones out of his pocket, he connected it to his phone and secured the buds in his ears.

"Brace yourself, I'll take you on a trip down memory lane, This is not a rap on how I'm slingin' crack or move cocaine, This is cul-de-sac and plenty Cognac and major pain"

He was enveloped in his music as he made his way home, the street lights and and corner stores illuminating his path. Discarded wrappers and other miscellaneous pieces of garbage mixed with dead leaves, creating mini tornadoes with every gust of wind. Graffiti peppered brick walls, concrete, fences, and any other surface that was suitable, there for anyone who cared to look. On temperate Spring and Fall days, and on hot Summer days, these blocks would be full of life. The old heads would be outside of corner stores shooting dice. The parks would be bursting at the seams with kids playing on the equipment and running around, guys at the basketball courts playing pickup games all day and using the monkey bars to get a free workout in.

But now? The streets were eerily quiet, everyone preferring to be inside their warm homes, especially at this time. Damon was alone. The thought didn't bother him too much. He had a hectic day, and was glad to have some time to himself. When he got home, he knew he would be thrown back into a life of sociability. So he kept walking, cherishing every extra moment he had to himself since he decided not to take the bus.

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//11:30 p.m.//

"Suck a dick or die or sucker punch a wall of bullets comin' from AK's, AR's, 'Ayy, y'all duck!' That's what momma said when we was eatin' the free lunch. Aw man, goddamn, all hell broke loose. You killed my cousin back in '94, fuck yo' truce!"

Damon was about ten minutes away from home now. He was walking a little more quickly now, the cold finally getting to him. Still, he was enjoying his solitude. He had Kendrick blasting in his ears, completely unaware of his surroundings.

He didn't hear the footsteps behind him. He didn't hear the "That's him" uttered by the guys that decided he would be their next target. He didn't notice any of it until a fist connected to the side of his skull, sending him to the floor.

Groaning in pain, he tried to get up and orient himself, but a foot stepped down on his back, keeping him on the floor. He felt hands going through his pockets. Damon clenched his jaw and closed his eyes as he got robbed, staying still. He knew it would be safer for him if he didn't fight back.

"Projects tore up, gang signs get thrown up. Cocaine laced in marijuana, and they wonder why I rarely smoke now. Imagine if your first blunt had you foamin' at the mouth, I was straight tweakin'"

When his headphones were ripped out of his ears, he was fully brought into the reality of the situation. There was no more pretending that this could possibly be a dream. A pair of strong arms grabbed him and flipped him over. He saw four figures standing over him. They picked a good spot to get him- between the street lights, so he couldn't properly see them.

"Yo, take care of this nigga b," a menacing, harsh voice declared. Three of the guys walked away, leaving one tall guy with a medium build behind. Damon could feel his apprehension and was confused. He took the opportunity to sit up and get a good look at him.

Damon froze as his eyes adjusted to the darkness properly. He knew the guy towering over him. It was Keron, someone he used to be good friends with before they grew apart. He had heard about his mother dying recently, and meant to reach out to him to offer his condolences. He never did.

His eyes burned as it hit him that Keron had joined a gang. He had been alone, and Damon could have helped prevent this.

"Ayo Keron, it don't have to be like this, you know that man." Damon's breath produced a white cloud in front of him, but the skin piercing cold didn't matter much to him anymore.

Keron's sharp jaw clenched and unclenched along with his fists, his hazel eyes watery and bloodshot. "Shut up nigga, you know what it's hitting for,"  he growled.

When Damon realized he couldn't reason with him, he tried to get up and run. But it was too late. Before he could even get off the ground, Keron's fist connected with his jaw, knocking him back down.

He stood over Damon and delivered a barrage of punches so quickly, Damon didn't have a chance to block or hit back. He felt blood pooling inside of his mouth, and turned to spit it out.

When he finished, he could see that Keron was standing over him shaking. All Damon felt was pain. Internally and externally.

Keron delivered one last kick to his side. "I'm sorry," he apologized in a low voice before turning around and walking away. Damon stayed on the ground, in too much pain to move. Hot tears slid down his cheeks, mixing with the blood.

"Shit, the hood took me under, so I follow the rules. But yeah, that's like me, I grew up in the hoof where they bang, and niggas that rep colors is doin' the same thang."

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//11:59 p.m.//