Ryan, Part I
The day was March 24, 2012. I woke up that Saturday morning with a heavy conscious. Something, as usual, just didn't seem right. My mind continued to clutter in crazy thoughts as I laid in my bed apprehensively waiting for...something. Maybe a text from a loved one or even, hypothetically speaking, a current crush, to brighten my mood? I had recently added Nas' Illmatic album to my iTunes library. Before I knew it, "Life's A Bitch" was on repeat. I played the song for about 3 hours before I decided to get up and start my day.
I decided to pay my mother a visit, who was at the time, typing up a paper for school. She's working towards her doctorate degree. Like any mother would, she recognized the agony and discomfort in my eyes. My emotions were written all over my face. She asked of me to tell her what was wrong, but I could not answer. I couldn't answer her because I did not know myself.
Eventually the sun had fallen from the sky and the moon arose in it's place. It was now another Saturday night and a night I remember so very vividly. I had arranged with a couple friends to go and get high. We did, and in this particular session, I made it a point to play "Life's A Bitch" after the second vanilla dutch was nothing but mere ashes. After finishing what was left of the marijuana, I dropped my friends off. I made it back home, high as shit, and opened up my iTunes. I listened to about 3 songs ("Open Mic" & "Infinite" by Eminem, and then lastly "I Wanna Get High" by Cypress Hill) before another friend of mine called me for yet another session. As if I was gonna turn it down, I agreed, and shortly after, we were in front of my house at 1:30 AM in his BMW lighting king-sized Bob Marley joints and engaging in eclectic conversation. I remember us saying our goodbyes in an "until the next session" fashion, and heading back in the house, this time too stoned to open my laptop. I fell asleep.
A couple hours later, I was woken by the continuous vibration of my cell phone. I noticed my call log was filled with contacts who weren't usually there, and before I returned any of the calls, I decided to open my text messages. The first text I opened read, "your brother was shot." I froze. Glaring at me was my phone screen. I could no longer see the text. My vision became blurry as my pupils wandered from my phone, to my alarm clock, to my pitch-black room, and back to my phone. I needed to be sure that I was in fact, awake, reading these piercing words. As I attempted to wake all the way up, more and more text messages came to my phone. I decided to get on Twitter to see if anyone on there had tweeted anything about it, and there it was. "RIP Ryan Henderson" flashed before my eyes countless times as I scrolled down trying to remain sane. I woke up.
To be continued...