I didn’t know what I was expecting when I walked out of my house that day. But, I saw what I saw. Jack, my friend, was trying to steal my bike. Granted, I stole it from the abandoned parking lot down the street, but I was the one who fixed it up and got it working, not him! However, the more I think about it, I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Considering the neighborhood I grew up in, things like this were small compared to the crimes committed deeper into the area. We were on the edge of the neighborhood, so nothing got too bad. Growing up in downtown Philly was tough, especially since you were expected to have your first fight by the age of only 9 years old. Such a shame. They probably fought over stolen cards or something.

But that bike was my pride and joy at the time. I had stolen, stolen, a bike from a place that was watched by security cameras daily by the cops down at PPD. And to get away with something like that, it gave me the strength to continue going. I just wish Jack had known that. If he had, he wouldn’t have made a mistake like that.

I marched up to him, hands clenched into tiny fists at my sides. “Why are you stealing my bike?”

Jack looked up at me with those his sky blue eyes. “What do you mean, your bike? I saw you steal it.”

“I know but I was the one who got that bike working, not you.”

“I thought that as friends I could use the bike for something.”

“Like what?”

Jack shifted uncomfortably on his feet. His eyes avoided mine, which by that point were probably red with rage. He bit his lip a couple of times, trying to find an answer to my question. He didn’t have a reason. And that pissed me off.

“Exactly,” I hissed, my voice dripping with poison, “Give it back. It doesn’t belong to you.”

“Logan, you know dang well that it doesn’t belong to you either!” he shouted, his voice feeling like a punch to the gut. His usual pale complexion was red with rage. He dropped the bike in his anger, which by that point made me even angrier.

I can’t exactly remember what happened next. I think that my fist finally dug into his child-like face, but who knows. All I knew next was that I was on the ground with Jack on top of me, red in the face. I kicked him in the gut, sending him to the pavement.

Suddenly, there were those infamous sirens squealing in my ears. I managed to sit up just in time to see the cop car whirling around the corner. Somebody probably saw us fighting and decided to call the cops on a couple of 9-year-olds fighting with no weapon over a dumb rusty bike.

My fight-or-flight response kicked in and I ducked behind the tree just in time to watch the cops march up to Jack, who was still dazed from what happened.

The tallest cop picked up Jack by his right arm. Jack was dangling about 2 feet off the ground.

“Is this your bike, son?”

He had a gun about the length of my forearm. Even from far away, I could tell it was loaded. The shorter cop stood behind him, handcuffs swinging in his fist.

Jack’s face grew white like the clouds in the sky. He began stuttering, as he often does when he is nervous. “N-no. Of- of course not.”

“You’re lying.”

Then there was a bang. Next thing I knew, Jack was on the ground, blood gushing from his head. I still don’t understand why they shot him. He was just a kid, for Christ’s sake! But still, that moment scarred me for life. I still think about that bike sometimes. Its usual silvery rust shade was stained red with the blood from his head.
What happened next was a blur. Jack’s mother was sobbing hysterically over his body while his father grew red in the face from screaming at the police. It was no use though because the officers just sauntered back to their car as if they killed kids for breakfast. They drove away after some time, with Jack’s father throwing stones at the retreating vehicle.

My parents eventually came out of our house, probably from all of the commotion happening in the street. My father immediately found me in my hiding spot and demanded to know what happened. I explained, but by that point, there was no way I could’ve gotten out of there alive. I was grounded by both my parents and Jack’s parents for being careless and selfish over a stupid bike.

That night, I snuck out of my house, not knowing where to turn. There was a warehouse down the street that was abandoned for reasons I can’t possibly fathom. I hid out in that place with a few other kids who ran away as I did with similar reasons. They became like my family, even more than my biological one.

Four years later of me hiding from the police and my parents, I managed to get my hands on a train ticket to a place called Riverside, California. My chance for redemption was finally there. A clean slate for a kid who had blood on his hands.

I stole some stuff from my room that my parents still kept up for some reason but my father caught me before I left.

“What are you doing?”

I turned around, a plastic bag of food and clothes in my right hand and a bottle of water in the other. “I’m going to California.”

His face grew a deep and angry red. His fists quivered like they usually do when he gets really angry. “Why would you go there? That’s all the way across the country!”

“Because I don’t have a future here, that’s why! You think I want to stay here and watch every new friend I make get murdered?!”

I had a point, but I think that it just made him madder.

“You know what? Fine! Go to flipping California! Or even Mexico! I don’t care, just get out of this house because I am done with this nonsense, mister!”

So I did. I whirled around and slammed the door, making the flimsy blue house rattle. I could hear dogs barking from different houses and different lives as I sprinted down the dark alleyways. I ran all the way the train station, anger and frustration clouding my vision.

Around 5 in the morning the next day, I got on to the train with other people living their own lives. Some of them probably had jobs, some of may have been going to a funeral or a wedding. They probably wondered what I was doing on that train, with my grey tattered sweatshirt and ripped jeans. Maybe some of them thought I was a hooligan. Some probably thought I was a runaway. Whatever they thought of me, I didn’t care. All I wanted, was a clean slate.