I was getting comfortable when Black came inside, carrying a huge, white and blue duffle bag. "You alright?" He asked me, handing me the remote as he walked past the tv, walking over to the closet next to the tv. He dropped the duffle bag on the couch, and I felt it weigh down the couch, money wrapped in rubber hands poking out from between the zipper.

Hidden behind the door, I could hear him punch in the code to his safe.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I answered, flipping through channels, "You going somewhere?"

He peeked his head from around the door, nodding, "Yeah, got to handle some business. But I'll be back by the morning."

With a second duffle bag filled, he dropped it next to the one already on the couch, weighing down the sofa more. I watched him struggle to close the first bag all the way, pressing down and forcing the zipper over the money inside. Black was very upfront with what he did - at least with me, even if it didn't explicitly state it. I guess we just had that kind of relationship, or understanding. I didn't have anybody to tell about what he did, and even if I did, I didn't think my opinion really mattered on the subject. He knew what he was doing, and the consequences behind it. I didn't like it, no, but I didn't think I had a place to lecture him about his choices either.

Besides, I couldn't judge. In Queens, a lot of us grew up poor. A lot of my friends turned to drugs and gangs before they even left high school.

I couldn't judge Black for his choices, especially when in some indirect, fucked up way, his choices did provide for me.

"Here's the phone," Black handed me the phone off the cradle, sliding the black and silver plastic into my hand, "Rich is outside. You need anything, call him. You really need something, call me."

With his bags packed, and everything he needed ready to go, I watched him put on his jacket, adjusting the gun that was holstered to the waistband of his jeans. He wore a stoic, stone cold expression on his face, and even though I had so many questions about what he was doing and where he was going, I knew it was for my own good that I kept it to myself. It wasn't like he was going to tell me if I asked, anyway. "Some things are better left unanswered," He'd tell me all the time, "You don't gotta know the answer to everything."

From the window, I watched Black back out of his driveway, flicking his headlights at me before making a sharp turn in the cul de sac, and speeding down the street. His tires screeched on the asphalt, while Rich pulled up further, blocking the entrance to the driveway and getting a better view of the house.

The house settled into quiet nothingness, the only source of noise coming from the reality television show I was watching. With the lights off, the figures on the tv illuminated the living room, splashes of color from bright commercials almost blinding my eyes. Now that I was settled, tiredness was hitting me like a ton of bricks. My legs ached, feeling restless as I laid spread out across the couch.

I finally had a moment of quiet, and I was coming to terms with everything that happened today. Even though I was exhausted, my mind kept running, filled with thoughts and dreams about what my future held.

Dreams were funny. They were ever changing, just within reach but still too far to grab. You couldn't hold them in your hands.

I didn't know exactly what my dreams were. Sometimes, I felt like I didn't really have any sense of direction.

But there was one thing I wanted to do.

I wanted to get far away from here. Far away from my fears. Far away from feeling lost and hopeless in my life. Far away from dealing with the volatile relationship I was stuck between - my mom and her drugs. I wanted to be free.

I guess you could say I do know what my dreams are, huh?