PROLOGUE

THERE IS AN AREA IN NORTH PHILADELPHIA, called the Badlands. It’s one of the toughest communities not only in Philly, but in the nation. For decades now the area has been plagued by poverty. This predominantly Hispanic section of town is polluted with crime, guns and drugs. Heroin reigns supreme here; it is the number-one drug of choice. Dealers, fiends and junkies—of all races, from all walks of life—come here from far and wide to cop drugs.

Anywhere you looked in the Badlands, you could see the living dead, men and women so severely addicted to drugs that they are slowly dying. And they know it. Here it is commonplace to see a corpse, as well as syringes and other kinds of drug paraphernalia, lying in the gutter. The Badlands is a place that urban renewal and empowerment zones forgot. The decrepit row houses and rodent-infested tenement buildings that line the blocks are evidence of the fact. Here murder and mayhem are the law of the land.

Pain and suffering are a natural way of life for people in this environment. They are suffocated by negativity and often have no alternative but to engage in destructive behavior. Some buy and sell dreams by selling or using drugs. This is their way to escape a grimy reality. Some sell no less than their souls.

Nestled in with the Hispanic families on 9th and Indiana lived a black family. Something took place in their household that would change a young girl’s life forever.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER
1

C’MERE, TONYA!” her mother yelled, as she passed her coming out of the bathroom. The woman’s eyes focused like laser beams on her daughter’s neck. Tonya pulled up her shirt collar in response, desperate in her attempt to hide the focus of her mother’s attention.

Veronica Morris had forewarned her daughter time and time again about being fast with boys. “Stay away from them. Keep your legs closed. I’m not trying to be a grandmother yet,” she repeated. But like any single mother raising a teenaged daughter, she was overwhelmed. Ms. Morris was as strict with Tonya as she could be. She made no concessions. Tonya was seventeen years old, and still not allowed to have a boyfriend, to date boys or even have them call the house. She was a typical teenager though; she found a way to do the normal things that young people do for fun despite her mom. Tonya had always managed to hide any disobedient act from her mother. That is, until now.

Veronica grabbed Tonya by the shirt collar and snatched her back into the bathroom to examine her in the light.

“What the hell is this?” she asked, touching the discolorations along the right side of her daughter’s neck.

“Nuttin! … I … I … I was fightin’,” Tonya stuttered.

“These ain’t no damn bruises or scratches,” her mother said.