The title was a difficult one for me to find, but it was nowhere near as difficult as writing about one part of this story. I'll let you know by using the date mentioned: June 10th. This part is a true story. The rest is made up with the exception of what happened afterwards. I based it on someone else's life story with permission.

With that, on with the story:

--Changes--

To be honest, I'm not one for religion. Don't misunderstand me, I have no problem with those who have a vested interest in it, but for me I find it difficult to worship someone that isn't there. I prefer a more low key kind of worship towards someone who definitely existed; someone who was always there for me, someone who loved me unconditionally no matter how wrong the path in my life went. And believe you me, my life went down plenty of wrong paths.

I was born the middle child of a well to do family. My little sister was born two years after me while my older brother was four years my senior. Dad was the typical stay at home type, concentrating on his art. He was a pretty good artist too; I kind of wish I had his artistic skill. Mom had her own catering business, and was a fantastic cook. She would tell me the stories of her time in culinary school, and it made me wish I had her cooking skill. Not that I'm complaining about my skills, but they tend to run more...roughneck.

Mom was, and still is, a great woman. That's not to say Dad wasn't good at raising us, but kids in my opinion are usually biased towards the one who gave birth to them. It's not always the case, but it was for me, regardless of how much grief I gave her.

Before I continue, I just want to be up front and get some things out in the open. My parents tried damn hard to keep me on the right path. They went to church every Sunday, morning and night. Of course they took me and my siblings--we even had to go to Sunday School like good Methodists. Sadly, I found the lessons boring and the sermons even moreso, and I cared more about the church services being over for the day than where my immortal soul would wind up after I died.

Maybe that's where it went wrong in my life. Maybe if I'd been a better Methodist and a better Christian I wouldn't have wasted so many precious years of my youth. Maybe it was my choice, and I chose to be bad because as a kid I was weak-willed and being bad was so much easier than being good.

Maybe, maybe not...and you know what I say? Whatever. All those maybes don't matter. I made my choices, and I have to live with them.

My family never had a clue as to how bad I'd gotten, not until police called them one night after I'd hotwired a car and went for a joyride. Did I mention that my blood alcohol level was so high it was a wonder how I didn't die of alcohol poisoning? It was that high tolerance for booze that would keep me in trouble for several years. I was only fifteen when I took that car, so they sent me to juvie. All it did was bulk up my muscles and get me into shape. While I was there it didn't take me long to tip the scales over the two-hundred pound mark either, maybe a year or so. After I got out of juvie I was six feet tall and two-hundred thirty pounds of hard muscle. My mane was long and styled so that it always covered my lazy eye, which had a tendency to drift when I was really tired. And I got tired being at home after juvie. The depths of my miscreant childhood had shocked my family, and I think the answers to their questions aged my mom internally by ten years, much to my shame.

Questions like "How long had you been drinking?" Since the day I turned thirteen.

"How did you have access to alcohol?" Through friends, complete strangers--any way I could get at it.

"Were you doing drugs?" No, and that was one of the few times I was truthful to my parents during my teenage years.

"Will you do drugs?" No, and that was another one of the times I was truthful to them. I'd seen too many crack babies in juvie to want to do that to my body. I wouldn't even use steroids because I didn't want a shriveled penis.

"Why do you do those things?" That was an easy answer--because I could.

"Have you learned your lesson?" Probably--this was the truth, but not the truth as they understood it. I did learn a lesson, but it was to be sneakier the next time I broke the law. If I didn't get caught, I wouldn't get in trouble now would I?

I have to give my parents credit for handling the situation because they made it tough for me to do anything wrong. So I became the model son. I did my homework, I behaved around my parents and at school, and I didn't start trouble with my little sister or my older brother. Not that my brother would fight back, since while he was a couple inches taller than me, I outweighed him by a good sixty pounds. Yeah, he was a twig.

For half a year I was a good boy, and this delighted my parents. They thought I had really changed my ways, and I had. Instead of doing the dirty work, I was running a gang and letting them do my dirty work and beating the snot out of them for the tiniest of infractions. I could do it too, because I was seventeen at the time, and I was one big bastard. Six feet tall and two-hundred fifty pounds, I was not to be messed with. My parents must've unconsciously been aware of my attitude outside of home, because they got stricter with me. I played along, though. Once I was eighteen, I was going to get the hell out of their house. Screw the rules then.

Maybe I hadn't learned my lesson after all. I guess I hadn't, not until something happened to change my ill-conceived plans.

Me and Shasta, my little sister, were going to the library. She needed to work on an essay, and my parents thought I was taking her there because I loved the little brat. They were half right. I took my sis to the library because I really did care for her, but I was going to sneak away to meet up with my crew while Shasta was doing her research. It seemed that one of my boys was slacking on his duties--no, I'm not going to tell what those duties are, I'm trying my best to forget what I used to do--so I was going to pay them a visit and crack some skulls. At least, that was the plan.

I'll never know how my boys knew the route I was taking. Maybe they pretended to be one of the few real friends I had and called my house, I really don't know. All I can say is when they showed up in front of me and my sister while we were in the back alley behind some houses, I instinctively moved in front of Shasta. All five of my boys were there, mostly lions except for this one tiger, the one whose skull I was going to beat in. He was a couple inches shorter than me, and he and I both knew in a fair fight he didn't stand a chance. The problem was this wasn't going to be a fair fight, not with five of them and one of me. And if I had to worry about my sister, I wasn't going to stand a chance. I growled at my sister to run, never keeping my eyes off of my former crew who were now wearing the colors of the rival gang. Would anyone stop and help a fourteen year old girl? I didn't know. Hell, I didn't know if I could survive this fight.

Lucky for me Shasta took off back the way we came, so that was one less thing to worry about. It wouldn't really increase my odds of winning, but at least my sister wouldn't get hurt.

In order to keep their attention on me I moved in, cracking my knuckles. Every second I kept them on me meant Shasta was further away. "I'm impressed you guys could come to this decision without my help," I growled at them.

"Piss off, Robey," the tiger said, smacking his fist into his open palm. "Me'n the crew had a talk and we decided we want you out."

"Seeing as how I put the gang together, Jodi, you can't put me out." My quick rebuttal made him hesitate, but he recovered quickly, a snarl pulling back his lips.

"Well...well we're kicking you out anyway and run things our way."

"You think you can run the gang?" I shook my hands out against my sides, warming up for the fight. "I'd almost be willing to let you guys try. Almost." I brought my fists up, assuming a boxing stance. Yeah, you can learn a lot in juvie, like dishing out a beating and taking a beating.

They jumped me, and you bet I got my ass kicked pretty damn bad. At least I took down Jodi and one of the lions with a few punches on their thick skulls, but after they dropped the other boys nailed me. One finally managed to grab my arms while the other two started pounding on my stomach. I struggled as hard as I could but the boys got me good. One of them had the bright idea to smack me across my forehead with a rock, maybe a brick, and that was that. I crumpled to my knees, and my boys gave me a load of payback in the form of kicks to the ribs. That's when I started feeling the pain. I could take punches to the gut, even a blow to the skull, but my ribs were another story. I fought back, but I was done. I was beaten, probably even broken, but I still fought back. I couldn't lie there and give up. It wasn't in my nature. I grabbed one of the boys by the legs and yanked. He fell flat on his back, letting me go and somehow I managed to get on top of him. I got in a good round of punches before they pulled me off him, and they made me pay for my renewed defiance.

It took a while for the police sirens to push through the pounding in my ears, but that sound cut the beating I was getting to a halt. The boys grabbed Jodi and the other cat and ran. I never saw them again. I don't know if they got caught by the police or if they just left town. As for me, I hid in a recycling bin a few houses down and somehow managed to stay conscious. Lucky me, huh? When I was sure the cops were gone (they probably never even got out of their cruiser), I limped my way home to see Shasta crying on the front steps of our house. Mom and Dad weren't home, and my older brother lived in the dorm at college. She rushed over and hugged me when she saw me, which didn't help my bruised (and not broken, thankfully) ribs, but I was still grateful she was okay. After I calmed her down I took her inside and I went into my room so I could see how bad the damage was to my head.

To be blunt, I was a sight, and not a very good one for once. Blood had matted the side of my head, making my mane stick to it. I also had a brownish trail of blood coming from my nose. I took a shower until the water didn't sting my bruised and aching body, and dried my mane, styling it so that it could cover the damage done to my head. A second examination of my looks was a bit better. Gone was that ugly wreck that had gotten beaten up. In its place was a slightly battered me, but still ten times more handsome than how I looked before I took that shower. I was pretty damned fine. Scratch that, I was MIGHTY damn fine.

Hey, I was a teenager fixated on my looks. What else would you expect?

I went to Shasta's room and once there made her promise not to tell our parents about what happened. She was still at that age where she trusted family, and I think maybe just a bit sheltered because even though she knew I went to juvie she still asked me why did they hurt me. I told her it was because some people aren't satisfied unless they hurt other folks, and she seemed to buy it. She never told Mom and Dad, so they never found out.

And that was that.

Except it really wasn't.

I couldn't sleep at all for two days after getting beaten up. My mind was always replaying the events of what happened, and I found myself focusing on the part where my sister ran off. I think that's why I had the insomnia, because I was thinking the one question that I had no answer to: What if some of the guys went after her? They could've hurt her, or worse. I didn't want to think about it, but I knew at least one of the guys would've tried to force himself on Shasta. That bothered me, because while I'd caused my family a ton of grief since I entered my teenaged years, I'd never put them in danger of physical harm.

I got lucky this time. All I had was some bruised ribs and a secret between me and my sis, but I wasn't stupid. My luck wouldn't always hold out, and one day I'd find myself responsible for getting any or all of my family members in trouble unless I quit. So I did. It was easy giving up the gang life, and I guess that was my final bit of good luck for a while. I founded that gang, and since my crew vanished I wasn't about to recruit anyone else. My gang never stepped on any other gang's territory, so I wasn't worried about any gang reprisals. I guess looking back it was foolish optimism to think I was safe, but no one came after me or my family. Like I said, it was my final bit of good luck for a while.

Anyway, I cleaned up my act for real this time. I got a job working at a retail store, one of those nationwide ones that the rednecks like so much, and I started preparing for college. I was making good grades because I was actually studying, and overall my family was getting along with each other. It seemed like I was putting my life and my priorities in order, huh? Well, it would seem like that because there's one thing I left out up until now. One of those little twists that makes the reader cringe, and I'm sorry that I hid it from you. However, I'm the one writing my life story, so it's my prerogative.

You see, while I mentioned I'd been drinking since I was thirteen, I never said I'd stopped, because I didn't. I was an alcoholic, and I considered it to be okay since it was my final "character flaw". I thought I was entitled to one vice. Yeah, I was a dumb kid, and when I started college that fickle bitch called Karma had finally caught up with me. Sure, it took some time for it to arrive--I tried my best during the first year of college and kept my grade point average to a three point eight. Not bad for some who cheated on his high school exams, huh? I had everything going well for me, and in my arrogance I thought things would remain smooth.

I was such a damn fool.

All it took was one bad twist of Fate during the summer to turns things around, from good to total disaster. Admittedly the death of a family member is more than a "bad twist", but it still hurts to think about it, much less write about the death of my mom.

Let's back up to February, though. Mom was starting to feel run down, but because it was flu season we just thought she'd caught the bug. No big deal, right? All she had to do was rest, drink plenty of vitamin C, and she'd be better. That's the attitude we all had, including her. The flu was nothing to worry about. She'd get better.

Only she didn't get better. After a week of her still being sick, we started to worry. After two weeks Dad took her to the doctor, who diagnosed her with mono. We all thought that was funny since it was supposedly a mild strain, nothing to worry about. In a month or so she'd be all right, and when her birthday came we joked on how she was the Mono Queen.

Damn it, it should've been mono. It wasn't fair for someone like her to find out what was really wrong. I don't remember how we found out she didn't have mono. Maybe it was a follow-up appointment, maybe it was the fact she wasn't getting better that clued us in. I don't remember, it's all a blur during those six weeks.

When they called and told me it was cancer and how it got into her liver and the bones of her back, I remember going into the shower and breaking down in tears. Me, the big tough lion who used to beat in the skulls of his crew. Me, the guy who was a wild hellion before he was even a teenager, who knew how to steal a car before he even got his permit. Me. In tears. My mom, she'd never smoked a cigarette in her life, she always wore a hat if she was going to work in the garden, she always took care of herself. She shouldn't have been a target for cancer, yet there she was, laying in that hospital a few days later. I could see the whites of her eyes starting to turn a jaundiced color, and her facial features were slackening from the painkillers. Seeing her like that made me feel something I never felt in my life, not even when I saw the tears in my mom's eyes before I got sent to juvie.

I felt guilty.

Maybe I had an epiphany, maybe some sort of empathy. Was this how mom felt when she first knew how bad I'd become? That someone she raised and loved turned out to be such a bastard? To see her losing the fight against the cancer, to see her getting worse every day...it might not be the best comparison, me going to juvie and her dying of cancer, but a part of me died when I realized she was going to die, that she wasn't ever going to be a grandmother. That she'd never live to see her next birthday, or celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas.

I hope none of you ever has to go through what I did. I mean that.

She died on June 10th. A day before that she slipped into a coma. Her body was shutting down, her kidneys hadn't worked in a week, and I think she knew, even through those painkillers, that she didn't have much more time. Why else would she look at me with such clarity the day before she went comatose and say:

"Be good to your father."

Not be good to Sasta. Not be good to my older brother. To my father. She knew she was going to die. What was she feeling during her stay in the hospital? Was she scared? I don't know. I hope she wasn't.

I got the call when I was visiting my friend, ironically enough, in another hospital. He had appendicitis. My grandmother on my dad's side was the one who called me. Our conversation went like this:

"Hello?"

"Robey."

"Oh, no."

"She's gone."

Later I'd find out she died peacefully. Her mom held her hand, said she could let go, and I guess Mom heard her. She sighed once, then was gone.

I was nineteen. Mom and Dad would've celebrated their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary on Christmas Eve. I don't remember if we celebrated Christmas that year. I don't even remember what happened that summer after Mom died, it's all so numbingly vague. What I do remember is going back to school and drinking heavily all the time. I'd neglect my studies and skip class just so I could get plastered every waking hour. The desk in my room was littered with liquor bottles from Crown Royal to Zima. You name it, I probably drank it.

Long story short, I got put on Academic suspension. Dad was furious when he found out, and gave me an ultimatum: Either I straighten up, or I could pay him back all the money he spent on my tuition. I chose the former, but not without a load of sulking on my part. Guess the spoiled brat in the past wasn't so far gone, huh?

It took a lot of brutal self-honesty and counseling for me to realize that I was using Mom's death as an excuse to punish myself. For some crazy reason I thought if I'd been a better son rather than a gang-banging thug, she wouldn't have died. It was stupid of me to think that, but I wasn't exactly thinking straight that year.

Ultimately I had to face facts--what was done was done. I couldn't change what happened in the past, but I could work on my life at the moment. I quit drinking alcohol to the point of abuse, pulled my grade point average up to acceptable levels, and even started studying the philosophy of Zen. It changed my outlook on life more than the conventional Christian religion ever could. I even took up meditating daily. What a mind blowing experience that was.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I was a bad kid for most of my life, and it took the death of someone I loved (even if I never admitted it to her or even myself) to make me realize how fragile life can be. Granted, I almost had to ruin my life to realize that, but if I can change, anyone can.

I miss her to this day. Anything I strive for now is usually dedicated to her memory, but I find myself occasionally dreaming she's still alive. Those dreams hurt when I wake up, because it's a reminder of what I no longer have in this life.

You're my hero now, Mom. I just wish you could be alive and here for me to tell you in person.

And yes, I'm being good to Dad.

I love you.

-Robey