Pointe of No Return: Giving You All I Got by Nako

offended, but she knew Papa was serious about his line of questioning and meant no harm. He was really asking her a question.
    “My mom pops pills like candy. Her legs, hands, feet everything is always in pain, especially when it’s raining,” Demi told him.
    “But I don’t want you to be like that, what else you wanna do?” he asked her, massaging her “ugly feet”.
    “Nothing but dance,” she told him.
    Papa didn’t understand just how serious she took ballet. They talked about it all the time, but she felt like once he saw her in action he would see where she was coming from. Dance was her life. Demi didn’t give a damn if her feet turned purple, she would dance until she couldn’t leap or twirl any more. Nothing else sparked her interest like the art behind creating a routine and bringing life to music. Dance was her therapy, her outlet from everything she was going through.
    “Have you ever killed someone?” she asked.
    Papa dropped her foot and got up. He despised her questions, and that she always came out of left field with them irritated him even more.
    “Demi, what’s with the questions?”
    “It’s just a question, why you gotta stop rubbing my feet?” she pouted and lay back on his pillows.
    “You be using me, man,” he laughed, towering over her body and resting on her stomach.
    “Move Papa, you’re heavy,” she complained.
    Papa ignored her and kissed her nose, “You smell good.”
    “I used your body wash,” she chuckled.
    Papa shook his head. “You’re a mess.”
    “Are you busy today?” she asked.
    Papa told her, “not until my phone rings.”
    “Well, can we go get some chicken and collard greens?” she asked.
    “I’ll go get it, you keep rubbing them toes.” Papa smooched her lips and hopped up to throw something on.
    Demi said, “Hurry back, I miss you already.”
    Papa winked at her as he put last night’s jeans back on and tucked his gun.
    Demi’s heart skipped a beat every time she saw him with that gun in his hand. 
    “Be careful,” she told him.
    Papa looked down at the gun and hated that she had to see him with it, but the truth was that the gun was a part of who he was. Hell, his name alone came from how he handled the glock.
    Papa went nowhere without his gun. If his gun couldn’t come, then hell, he wouldn’t be going either.
    “No need to worry,” he consoled her.
    “I’ll always worry about you,” she said, looking down. Demi hated her feelings for Papa; she liked him so much. They spent so much time together and she was slowly turning him into her best friend, and the “B” word. Boyfriend.
    Whenever Papa’s phone rang he would tell whoever was on the other line that he was chilling with his girl, so Demi assumed she was his “girlfriend”.
    Papa put the gun on the floor and went back to the bed. He needed all fear to flee from Demi’s mind. Papa didn’t want her to be scared to be with him or always worrying about him. He didn’t live life like that. Demi always said shit like, “Be safe” which made Papa think she expected the worst to happen to him just because he told her he was heavily involved in the streets.
    If Papa had to be nervous or scared about what the fuck he did then he needed to find another profession, because in these streets niggas died every day. Papa kept his gun tucked and his chin held high. He didn’t live in fear and although he wasn’t the most religious person, he knew God wouldn’t put anything on him he couldn’t handle.
    “Look at me ma,” he told Demi with her chin in his hand.  “I’m the nigga in these streets,” he told her seriously.
    Demi laughed because only Papa would say something like that. The line sounded as if it came from one of those movies he loved to watch while she read.
    “Really, Papa?” she said.
    Papa batted those long eyelashes, unknowingly, as he tried to get her to understand how serious he really was. Demi had no idea who she was sleeping next to at night. Papa was