Little Billy was frustrated. He could not really place his discontent, though he felt it gnawing at him daily in such a way that he felt he was going to go crazy. He had come to realize, at age 10 - the age which this story finds him - that his concerns were indeed broad, a fact which had previously prevented him from being able to discover why he felt he was going mad. For one thing, his mother was hardly a mother, and instead of being his mother, she was something different, something else. She was never around, for one thing, and on top of that, she had different men coming to their stinking tenement house. Little Billy didn't like these men, either, and he couldn't stand how his mother made Billy call them "dad". While Billy didn't know his father, he sure as hell knew that none of these men she brought home were his father, and it angered him that he would have to call them such.

The neighborhood did not seem right either, and this was something that had taken Billy his whole short life to realize. The houses, if they were to be called that, were depressing and flat, arranged three stories high and placed shoulder-to-shoulder, so that no house could have a yard. He had heard them be called "tenements" before, and recently he had come to call them that. The street was dirty and cracked, and the real nice BMW's that cruised along every now and then, with 20's sparkling and trunks bumping as they played 50 and Nas, had to drive real slow so that the potholes would not damage them. It was never any of these cars that drove real slow with their lights off at night to kill people. It was always the ones that were banged up and old. On that note, the violence, too, was tough to deal with. Billy had never thought of it much before, since he had been younger and more sheltered. Now, however, he was getting older, and some of the kids weren't ignoring him anymore. A part of Billy was proud that he was finally getting recognition, though a part of him was scared also at his coming of age. An older boy that used to date his sister, Darrel, had been shot last week and left dead on the sidewalk by a flooded gutter, and Billy had gotten scared because his sister had been gone for a few days. Billy's mother hadn't cared, though, which made him even angrier with her.

School wasn't bad, though some of the kids liked to bother him every now and then. That wasn't bad, since they bothered everyone that was younger than them. Billy liked one teacher a lot. His name was Mr. Jackson, and Billy really appreciated how nice he was, even though he was white. His mom had said that white guys "weren't shit", though one of Billy's little brothers was half-white. That was another thing, too. Billy had started to characterize people by color a lot more lately, though doing so was not his fault really. Lots of kids his age had been doing it a lot longer than him.

One day, towards the beginning of the summer, Billy was outside with his friends. The older kids were hanging out on the porch next door, which allowed the younger kids to take over the street. Little Billy could hear them playing their music loudly, most of them with their shirts off, using words like "mothafucka" and "bullshit" and "shut the fuck up, man". Billy had started to pick up words like that, and his mother had hit him, telling him not to say shit like that. Billy really didn't like his mother, which made him feel bad, since she was his mother.

His friend Clark was dribbling a basketball, and he tossed it at Billy. He caught it, and then set it down. "What's the matter?" Clark asked him.

"I don't know, man. I haven't been feeling good," Billy said.

"What's wrong? Your mom hit you again?"

"Does your mom?"

Clark laughed, putting his arm over his mouth as if to prevent the noise from escaping. "Not as much as your mom!" he said. Billy hung his head down, and Clark came up to him, putting an arm around his shoulder. "I'm just messin' with you, man. You know I'm just playin'."

"I know, but it's true," Billy said. "My mom be hittin' me all the time. I hate that bitch!" he blurted out, and Clark backed away from him.

"Whoa, you're startin' to sound like my daddy!"

"At least you know your daddy."

"C'mon, man. Cheer up! Let's just go shoot around," Clark said, stooping to pick up the basketball. Just then, there were loud pop noises from the stoop where the older kids were playing, and that was it. A stray 9mm round bored into Little Billy's left temple, and he simply fell over, his eyes glazing, and blood coming from the side of his head. He hit the street with a lifeless thud, his body limp, his eyes still open. Some of the older kids were already dead too, and some of the others were running from the shots, their shirts off, their 40 ounce bottles still clenched in their hands. One ran near Clark, who was stunned after seeing his friend killed, and a bullet meant for the older kid hit Clark in his shoulder. Clark screamed, spinning like a top before crashing down to the street, his shoulder feeling like it was on fire. More shots rang out, but Clark was too absorbed in his own pain to care. He cried and screamed, writhing in agony, the sun beating harshly on him, as it did on Little Billy, though Billy was dead.