In my hood, no one wears red. You get caught slipping, they will paint the streets red with your own blood. It was a rule, a must. This is the life I live in—except me. I am different 🙂 because I am ruthless. I do not care, and if questioned, we can run it one-on-one or however you like. I do not care. So, I am a thug on my own—except, why do we hate red so much?

One day, I was at a spot where drugs, drug addicts, gangsters, and prostitutes connected, made money, and went about their business. It was there that I met him—me, all in blue, flying colors because we rep that shit. Ain’t no being scary in my hood. But this guy wore red, and I kept in mind: why do we hate red so much?

So, I spoke to the guy. He seemed unoffended by my colors. He seemed indifferent, even though the fact was—I was his enemy. But he spoke casually, as if nothing was amiss. I liked the guy, so I sat down, smoked with him, and that was it. Just like that, we were both friends—both smoking, laughing, joking. He was just like me. Rival gangs, but so what?

Red is not a bad color. In fact, I like red…

I spent my days going to his house, him coming to my house. I spent nights with him. I always saw him on the streets wearing a red bandana. I always shook his hand and hung out with him—until one day, a homie said, “That fool is East Side.”

I told him, “So what?”

My homie says, “Fuck East Side.”

I tell him, “Look, if you want to fight him, fight him one-on-one.”

My homie stays quiet. So I say, “That’s what the fuck I thought.”

They leave, but I stay with my friend. I don’t tell him about my homie’s words. Ain’t nothing to say anyway.

Another day, I am with my friend in red, smoking in my backyard. I meet another guy named Purple. Guy makes himself look tough, plus he says he is gang. So we invite him to smoke. We laugh, joke, kick it. But what I have done has caught up to me.

Cars pull up in my front yard. Several men get out with weapons.

Purple, the tough guy, runs in fear.

Me and Red go up front, and we get into a fight—except they outnumber us. So I begin to walk backward as I am fighting. I get hit with a baseball bat.

Red is by my side—both fighting but losing.

We eventually reach the alleyway, and we decide to part ways—me and Red. Too many. We can’t win.

I did not have a gun, so I chose to run. Me and Red both. I ran up the alley. Red cut through the alley.

Lucky for me, my homie knew and met me right at the end of the alley, opened the car door—I jumped in and left.

They were attacked too, so they figured I was next and came to help.

Shit.

All I could think of was retaliation.

But Red stood by my side. An enemy. A rival gang member fought for me—to defend me, his enemy in blue.

I kept that in mind.

So I kept hanging out with Red. I shared with him, always ate with him, got high with him, even met women with him. I even met more of his homies in red. They did not hurt me nor disrespect me because of my colors. They were just like us—except they wore different colors.

He was a good friend.

But one night, the air was thick. The streets were deserted.

That night, Red invited me to drink and smoke at his house with one of his friends. I did.

But I am telling you—the night was different.

The air was thick.

The streets were deserted.

The wind blew cold air in the night.

Something was wrong about that night.

But Red and his friend told me how they were at a party and a rival gang member passed by, throwing gang signs. So they followed him in a car. Several cars chased after him. They even caught up to the guy and made him lose control of the vehicle. They eventually killed the rival gang member.

Both Red and his friend seemed affected by this death. But I said nothing. Such things were normal.

We drank, smoked, forgot all about it.

We even began to prowl the night.

We began to steal from a store and houses.

That night was crazy.

We made money and went to sleep with money in our pockets.

It was not until the next morning that my betrayal would take place.

The next morning, I made my way to the park. I always stopped at an OG’s house.

That morning, their eyes were full of fire.

One of their brothers was killed by rival gang members.

Vengeance.

Vengeance was all they spoke of. Even I had retaliation on my mind—for the OG.

I was close to the older homie. He hid me when police were chasing after me. He let me hang out with him when I skipped school. He taught me things. He was always there. In fact, I looked up to him.

So it hurt that they killed him.

The story was—he was taking his brother home because his brother lived on the East Side. On his way back, he began to scream his neighborhood, throw gang signs. The people from the East Side were having a party, and they heard him.

They ran to their cars and chased the OG of my hood.

They caught up to him and speed-bumped the car until the car lost control and flipped over several times.

It was a convertible Mustang GT, so the OG flew out of the car and landed far away.

Yet he was still alive.

He crawled until the East Siders saw he was still alive—and they ran him over.

Until he died.

My friend…

As I heard the story, I remembered the night before—Red and his friend.

The story fit what they had told me.

It was then that I knew who was involved.

And my friend Red was a part of what happened to my OG.

It was then that I knew why my homie hated Red.

And my friend—now enemy—Red had to pay too.

I gave his location. His hangouts. Everything.

I even came with them to retaliate for my OG’s death.

We spent days running into enemy territory, causing destruction—for one life that was taken.

For a color.

And I lost a friend—for a color.

And for the death of a person who was dear to me.

So I betrayed Red.

I hated Red.

And I painted the streets red.

A rule we uphold with honor.

Nayo was his name.

My visits to the cemetery were always sad.

I left a rosary, poured alcohol on his grave, and smoked a blunt in memory of him.

We all did.

So this is why I betrayed Red.

And why my homies hate Red.