Chapter One

Making Friends

The sirens blared as the flashing lights blinded near by drivers, who slowed down to see what was going on. Two paramedics were loading a shaking boy into the ambulance, blood pouring out onto the sheet that was being forcibly held against his stomach. They shut the door and spend off into the night.

“He's around seventeen years old, and was born on August eighth, 1989. He was found in a dark ally, in Springfield, lying in a pool of his own blood. A witness to the crime called the police when they heard a gun shot. By the time paramedics arrived, he was in shock. He was transferred here a day ago so he could be closer to home,” said a man dressed in a black suit. He looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had short brown hair and a small beard to match. He was tall and smelled of Old Spice cologne. His face, along with the rest of his body, was slim and toned.

The woman he was talking to was also wearing a black suit. Her hair, the color of fresh ground paprika, was pulled back into a tight bun at the base of her neck. She was small in stature and had a slim but tempting figure.

“How is he doing?” the man asked.

“They were able to remove the bullet successfully, stop the bleeding, and stitch him up.” The doctor paused a moment “He’s truly lucky to be alive. He lost a lot of blood,” he finished, scribbling some notes on the clipboard he clutched in his left arm.

“Can we ask him a few questions?” the woman asked softly.

“I would really prefer it if you didn’t. His body needs to rest. He needs recover from the trauma.”

“Please, I must insist. It will only take a few minutes, and we really need to get the information while it’s still fresh in his mind,” the man pressed.

“Sir, I don’t think that he’s going to forget being shot point blank with a hand gun anytime soon.”

“Dr. Smith, Dominick is still awake. You might as well let them go in. He’s refusing to sleep, the poor thing. He must be scared stiff. Being shot at seventeen. What’s this world coming to?” a nearby nurse fussed. She'd just slipped out of Dominick's room.

“Fine, you can see him," the doctor sighed. He still sounded doubtful. "But don’t get him worked up. I need him to stay as calm and relaxed as possible. It’s essential for his recovery that his heart beat stays at a good and steady rhythm.”

“Thank you. We won’t be long,” said the woman.

The two detectives started to walk towards Dominick's room.

“Well here it is,” said the man.

They walked in Dominick was lying down on the bed that was in the middle of the small, bland room. There was a bathroom to the left, and a counter along the wall. The entire room smelled of Pine Sol, and Mr. Clean.

An I.V went into his right arm, a feeding tube was in his stomach, and some wires went into his chest. He was hooked up to an oxygen tank. He had a huge black bruise around his left eye, and a minor cut showed on his cheek.

“He looks so helpless laying there with all those tubes going into him. What if he’s paralyzed? Who could do this to a kid?” the woman muttered angrily.

“I’m not a kid, I’m seventeen,” Dominick hissed, his voice barely as loud as a whisper. He brushed weakly at his long blue hair, which hung in his face.

“Dominick, I’m Detective Simpson and this is Detective Jones,” the woman said softly by way of introduction, as they walked closer to the battered boy. “Could you please tell us what happened to you?” she asked politely.

“You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“No, but can you please tell us what happened?” Detective Simpson asked.

“Why?” Dominick asked.

“So we can put the guys who did this to you behind bars,” Detective Simpson said.

“Why would you do that?”

“So they don’t do this to someone else,” she replied calmly.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.”

“Just tell us what happened to you. You won’t get in trouble,” Detective Jones added.

“I got shot, that’s what happened,” the boy growled, a glimpse of anger showing in his deep blue eyes.

“Yeah, we can kind of see that part, but what we don’t know is why,” Detective Simpson stated.

“Well these four guys who don’t like me started disn’ me. I wouldn’t take that so I dissed them back. They got mad and they shoved me. And I wouldn’t take that so I shoved them back. One thing led to another and now I’m lying up in this bed with these doctors putting all this crap into me and you two interrogating me like it’s my fault,” Dominick sighed wearily.

“We don’t know who is to blame yet. That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Detective Simpson said.

“It ain’t my fault.”

“We’re not saying it is. We just want to find out all of the facts,” she replied, making a note in her canary yellow legal pad.

“Man, why would I do this to myself?”

“We don’t know. We’re just keeping all doors open. We do have to keep in mind that you did attempt suicide two years ago,” Detective Jones reminded him.

“This is just flipin’ great. I get shot and I’m a suspect. Yeah I did slit my wrist. But like you said that was two years ago. I’m not saying anything else until I speak with a lawyer.”

Just then the doctor came in. He was very tall and had short brown hair, and a long and pointed nose. His skin was very wrinkly and he looked very tired and irritated.

“Detectives, I think it’s time for you to go, Dominic needs to rest.” It was more of a demand than a request.

They left, tightly shutting the door behind them.

“Dominick, I’m Doctor Smith,” he said as he walked over to the locked counter and pulled a syringe and a bottle containing a clear liquid out from one of the locked drawers. He stuck the needle into the top of the bottle, turned it upside down, and extracted some of the liquid.

“Whoa… whoa… um… What are you doing? What is that and were does it go?” Dominick asked trying to sit up, but this action was quickly diminished when a red-hot pain met the lower portion of his abdomen.

“It’s only ten milligrams of morphine, and it goes into this tube” the doctor explained pointing to a tube leading into Dominick’s left forearm.

“I don’t need morphine. I’m fine.”

“Yes, you do. You need to sleep and you won’t if you’re in pain,” Dr. Smith replied curtly, sticking the tube with the needle and squirting the morphine into it.

“Can’t I just go home?”

“No, you can’t. We need to keep you awhile for observations. The morphine will take about thirty minutes to go into effect,” and with that he left the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Dominick lay awake in the darkness for what seemed like an entirety. He finally fell into a long, deep, morphine induced sleep.

The rain poured down on the shivering young man standing on the corner with a heavy black gym bag slung carelessly across his shoulder. As the blue-haired teen stood there soaked to the bone, a rusted orange Chevy pulled up beside him.

Dominick noticed the guy driving the car had a gun in a holster on his right hip. He placed his hand over the gun, pulled it out, and aimed it at Dominick's chest.

He was in the back of the alleyway, his back flat against the brick wall. The driver was mere centimeters away from Dominick, gun firmly pressed against his chest.

“Had me the bag and I might decide not to kill you,” he sneered.

Sweat pouring and hands shaking, Dominick slowly took the off the bag and threw it behind his captor. He tried to speak, but for some reason he couldn’t make his lips move, let alone make a sound. He wanted so badly to scream, but he couldn’t.

“Since you’ve been so cooperative, I’ve decided to let you live. However, I can’t just leave you here to call the cops.” He cocked the hammer and…

Dominick awoke the next morning to the echoing sounds of a gunshot. He looked to his right, and saw nothing. He looked to his left, and there was Leo.

Leo was Dominick’s only friend, the only one who understood him; the only one Dominic could talk to. Leo was the only one who cared if Dominic was dead, in a ditch, or in jail. Leo was the only person who kept Dominick from attempting suicide again.

“What’s up?” Dominick managed to ask, wiping his sweating face with the back of his hand.

“Nothing. What about you? How are you holding up?” he brushed his shoulder length brown hair out of his face, which was etched in concern.

“Well, considering the fact that they inject ten milligrams of morphine into me every four or five hours, I don’t know” Dominick admitted.

“So when are they gonna let you out?” Leo asked.

“Man, you’re making it sound like I’m back in jail or something.”

“But really, when will they let you out?”

“I guess when I can eat and breathe on my own again.”

“What if you can never eat and breathe on your own again?” Leo asked, laughing.

“Then that would really suck. I hate being hooked up to these machines, they make me feel so weak.”

“So, who did it?” Leo asked, his voice dropping into a more serious tone.

Dominick spent the next twenty minuets explaining to Leo what happened and about his dream.

“Dom, you need to quit selling stolen goods. You can get into a lot of trouble or, worse killed, besides it’s illegal.”

“Leo, I’m not going to get killed. And I’m a carrier, not a seller.”

“Oh, because that’s so much better. I mean honestly, sometimes I think you actually try to get arrested and jailed. Why else would you do half the stuff you do?”

“Would you quit lecturing me already! Can we please just drop it?”

The next three weeks passed by without a problem. Leo stayed at the hospital with Dominick and he only went home to change his clothes, take a shower, and to get a few hours of sleep. Dominick was taken off oxygen after the first week and he forced D. Smith to remove his feeding tube after the first couple of days, but he couldn’t keep anything down for a while.

One day there was a loud knock at the door; Leo got up and answered it. Before he could do or say anything four guys, barged in.

“Hey, Dominick how you doin’?” the leader of the group asked approaching the bed where Dominick still lay incapacitated.

“I’m fine,” Dominick, replied with fake cheerfulness, stretching his arms as he sat up with a large amount of effort.

“Having fun?” the leader asked as he motioned for his minions to come.

“You guys should back off,” Leo warned.

“Leo, chill out, dude. I’ll handle this,” Dominick said as he got up off the bed, and stood. Today he was going home, so he was already in his street clothes, a black muscle shirt and a pair of blue jeans.

“Sorry I gotta leave so soon, but I have some business to attend to.” Dominick slowly ambulated towards the door, stopping right before he stepped out “Oh yeah, you guys do know that you still own Nate his money right?” Then he left the room.

Dominick walked up to the receptionist at the counter in the waiting room.

“Can I help you?” the lady asked.

“Yes. I’m Dominick Kekipi from room 273, and I’m checking out,” Dominic said as he pulled out his student I.D for verification.

“Okay, everything seems to be in order… wait where are your parents?” the lady asked.

“Beats me, why?” Dominick asked.

“Because I can’t let you out unless a parent or guardian signs for you,” the lady said.

“My Step-dad, Bill, can sign for me.”

“Well where is this Bill?”

“He’s sitting right there.” Dominick pointed to a man of enormous stature, sitting on a chair a waiting room chair.

“Oh. Um… Sir? Would you please sign your son out?”

“Step-son,” Dominick immediately corrected her as Bill made his way across the room.

“Yeah, I’ll sign for him,” Bill growled, picking up the ballpoint pen.

He signed the forms so Dominick could finally go home. Before he left Dominick was given a prescription for penicillin to help fight off a possible infection. The three of them walked out to the parking lot and climbed into Bill’s blue 1997 Ford F-150 and rode to Leo’s house in complete silence.