HARP★STAR Presents
The Day Before The Party
HARP★STAR Presents "The Day Before The Party"
@followers@highlight the story is real the curse is real and my feeling towards the police ( fuck em ) is final
It was 7th grade. The day before my birthday party.
The house was full—me and six, maybe seven boys, laid out like kings of the block on faded couches and air mattresses. No girls. Just us.
Just boys setting up decorations, tossing up balloons, talking mess, running the halls like we owned the world for a night.
My mama finally gave me the greenlight: we could go to the Eastside Boys & Girls Club.
But the plan was a lie from the jump.
We weren’t really heading there.
We had something else in mind.
Shaquille’s house.
A blunt.
So we started walkin’.
It was just a few blocks. That’s it.
From point A to point C, with a detour at B for a little smoke. Simple.
We walked like a school of fish, bouncing a basketball, talking trash, laughin’.
And then somebody started singin’.
“All through the hood, I keep hearin’ n****s say I’m supposed to die tonight…”
The 50 Cent joint.
And just like that—the vibe shifted.
Because where we came from, that song was cursed.
You sing the chorus out loud, and something bad follows. Always.
To break the curse, you had to sing The Game’s verse from “Hate It or Love It.”
Every kid knew it. You just did.
But we didn’t break the curse that day.
We kept walkin’, still singin’, still playin’… until we heard tires.
A car pulled up fast.
Real fast.
Screeched behind us, like death itself was in the backseat.
“HEY. Come here!”
A man’s voice. Loud. Commanding. Wrong.
We looked at each other like, Nah.
We ran.
It wasn’t a clean scatter. It was chaos.
Some jumped left, some right.
Two men jumped out the car, tryin’ to grab somebody—anybody.
We ran like cockroaches under kitchen light.
Heart first, no plan, just instincts and concrete.
I remember Joseph was next to me.
We jumped one fence. Then two. Then three.
By the fourth one, he couldn’t make it.
He called my name.
I stopped.
Jumped back over.
Grabbed him by the arms and threw him over that damn fence.
Then I jumped again.
But they caught me.
Fists. Feet. Asphalt.
I felt bones shake. My back hit pavement. My ribs screamed.
I ran again. Ducked through alleyways. Tried to vanish.
They kept hitting.
It was strange—hit, slow down. Hit, speed up. Hit, slow down again.
I took two rights. Thought someone might see me.
They didn’t.
They boxed me in with the car.
Driver hit the gas. I dove.
Hit the curb.
Felt my jaw bounce off concrete, my face caught between foot and street.
Then hands grabbed me.
Pulled me headfirst into the car.
And this was the part where I felt it:
Not fear.
Not pain.
But a voice.
Loud. Clear. Deep inside me.
“Wipe the neck. Get heavy. Sprawl.”
Three commands.
Wrestling technique.
I was on the wrestling team. After school.
And somehow, I remembered it. Not just in my brain—but in my body.
I dropped my weight. Threw my shoulder. Sprawled.
Fought.
And I broke free.
Ran.
When the cops came, I was bleeding. Face cracked. Body marked.
They took pictures. Pulled out measuring sticks. Documented my wounds.
And then?
They let the kidnappers go.
“They said y’all were breaking into cars. Stealing stereos.”
We hadn’t done shit. We were children.
Later, I found out two of those men went on to rape two women.
They were locked up years later.
I don’t know where that woman driver is.
But I remember her voice.
I remember her laugh.
That was the day before my birthday.
The party still happened.
But I wasn’t the same kid anymore.
