To die before you become an adult is the unfortunate truth for many of the poor people around the world. It was the fate of some of my friends and a fate I was often concerned about. Whenever I saw two friends arguing, walked into an unfamiliar spot, felt my father's hand strike my face, dealt or bought drugs, or saw a gun or knife I feared, I thought I would die. Yet I never did, I was the lucky one or one of the lucky ones.

It happens often where I'm from young men and women, dead from the mistakes they made. I was almost one of those young men.

I had been at a party taking advantage of the opioid addiction epidemic now effecting the entire U.S. At the time, I was an addict to prescription opioids and an addict to being an opioid dealer. Being a drug dealer comes with a certain life style a life style that is tremulous unsure and danger filled but is also thrilling and comes with the admiration of those you surround yourself with. I may have been a drug addict but I was also an addict for being the man others had to come to even if I was a very low-level dealer.

My operation was extremely poorly constructed. At least once a week after school I'd go shop lifting normally with a list from a drug dealer. I was very talented at shop lifting if I had to put a number at how much I've stolen in all I'd put it somewhere in the six-thousand-dollar range. I take no pride in that statement I regret my past actions and I eventually got caught for shoplifting and because of a rookie mistake. I'm lucky, I was going to be caught for something someday I'm lucky it was shoplifting instead of one of my other crimes.

After I got whatever the drug dealer I was working for to them I would be paid in drugs. Whatever I didn't use myself I'd sell at parties but being so low level didn't prevent the difficulties associated with being a drug dealer. In fact, the lower ones level the more likely they are to face those struggles and one day I was robbed for my stash.

It was during a field party, I left early I felt it wasn't quite my seen to country for my tastes. But as I was walking to my car there was a man leaning on it. His face was hidden as he was looking at the ground and wearing a hood. The man pulled a rag over his face as he saw me coming. I stood still I knew running would do me no good. He approached me and put a gun in my face.

It was a nine millimeter of some sort I think or maybe a twenty-two I was never the best at identifying guns as I was staring at the barrel. He asked for what I had, I handed him a half full bottle of oxycodone and then he lowered his gun. He told me he was sorry and he walked away.

That wasn't the last time I'd have a gun pointed at me but it was the only time someone would apologize for it. That man wasn't proud of what he was doing. Yet he did it.

I hope he is reading this. I hope he made it out, I hope he found a better way, and I hope his name will mean something more than a robber in a hood.