House On Mango Street Murder Monologue

One evening my mother told me that thereafter, I would have to do the shopping for food. She took me to the corner store to show me the way. I was proud; I felt like a grownup. The next afternoon, I looped the basket over my arm and went down the pavement toward the store. When I reached the corner, a gang of boys grabbed me, knocked me down, snatched the basket, took the money, and sent me running home in panic. That evening, I told my mother what had happened, but she made no comment; she sat down at once, wrote another note, gave me more money, and sent me out to the grocery again. I crept down the steps and saw the same gang of boys playing down the street. I ran back into the house. “What’s the matter?” my mother asked. “It’s
“Now, go on.” “I’m scared,” I said. “Go on and don’t pay any attention to them,” she said. I went out of the door and walked briskly down the sidewalk, praying that the gang would not bother me. But when I came abreast of them someone shouted, “There he is!” They came toward me and I broke into a wild run toward home. They overtook me and flung me to the pavement. I yelled, pleaded, kicked, but they wrenched the money out of my hand. They yanked me to my feet, gave me a few slaps and sent me home sobbing. My mother met me at the door. “They b-beat m-me,” I gasped. “They t-t-t-ook the m-money.” I started up the steps, seeking the shelter of the house. “Don’t you come in here,” my mother warned
“Don’t you come into this house until you’ve gotten those groceries,” she said. “They’ll beat me; they’ll beat me,” I said. “Then stay in the streets; don’t come back here!” I ran up the steps and tried to force my way past her into the house. A stinging slap came on my jaw. I stood on the sidewalk, crying. “Please, let me wait until tomorrow,” I begged. “No,” she said. “Go now! If you come back into this house without those groceries, I’ll whip you!” She slammed the door and I heard the key turn in the lock. I shook with fright. I was alone upon the dark, hostile streets and gangs were after me. I had the choice of being beaten at home or away from home. I clutched the stick, crying, trying to reason. If I were beaten at home, there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it; but if I were beaten in these streets, I had a chance to fight and defend myself. I walked slowly down the sidewalk, coming closer to the gang of boys, holding the stick tightly. I was so full of fear that I could scarcely breathe. I was almost upon them now. “There he is again!” the cry went up. They surrounded me quickly and began to grab for my hand. “I’ll kill you!” I