The Ace of Spades

Chapter 7

     It was raining like the drought season, the streets running brown; I'd run hard, sweat dripping from my brow, the taste of salt bitter on my lips. Is the car behind me driving to close, too fast, too slow?

     By now, I find myself nursing a longing for a water as tall as I stand. On this journey I am learning peacefulness, quietness, lying against the walls of dumpsters; isolation being found in alleys so cluttered sound just ceases to exist. Sunburn kisses my brow and dirt draws on skin the color of your mother's finest rubies.

     I never thought it would be a miracle to have bread that is not stone.

     My eyes grace the road far ahead as hands grab my arms, tugging me into the grass where the wild weeds grow. Having been walking on pins for the last mile, I went down with a buckle at the knees.

     It was with sour breath and wild eyes that the man looked at me; I fear his crazy has no bottom, for if I were to peer into his eyes any farther, I'd find another pit in the darkness. No words could describe the feral-ness of his grip or the froth in the mustache above his upper lip. However, he only stole my windbreaker, leaving me to be stricken by the drums of pounding rain.

     His toe caught my mouth as he crawled over me, specks of red covering the water stained gravel. Maybe it was a man emerging in a jacket three sizes too small, or the hopes my prone form held a wallet, that led the street kids to me; but from either outcome they appeared, one having his name crudely embroidered onto the back of his jacket. S-T-I-X

     My lips move, calling soundlessly as small hands feel my pants pockets; doing so with such a cold familiarity that made me believe searching dead bodies was as normal to them as buying Mama the Sunday paper was for me. There would be no Sunday papers for Mama now.

     I tighten my middle as they turn me, sweaty hands, slimey against my skin. It was dark now, electric lights leading cars down twisted streets, a small voice yelling, "We've gotta breather!"

     Hands rubbing a chin, asking, "Young or Creepy?"

     A faint echo replying, "Young'en."

     There is enough light to see him, the thin boy with hollows for eyes who wears a set edge to his jaw. Even though his head hosts a forest of bright, wild-hair it is the body behind him that demands the most attention; for he has bruised-bloodied knuckles, death on his mind, and no expectations of repentance. Contrasting starkly, the first boy appears as if he has a diary of feelings written in his back pocket; whereas the second one is serene, so serene one wouldn't think he was alive if they didn't see him blink.

     He throws a stone from palm to palm in a grossly comfortable way, so much so that someone should have given him a catcher's mitt, and seen what he could do. Eyes look down at me with lividness, screaming the question who the hell are you?

     As he stepped forward, light revealed the crooked angles of a scar which ran from nose to lip. There is an artistry to being destroyed, it is seen in this silver stripe of skin, that only enhances the aura of his disposition. This is why it seemed implausible for the idea to have entered his mind, the idea that led to being carried in arms strong yet wirey, my face close enough to investigate every nook on his jacket.

     His jacket plastered with the letters K-A-I-D-E-N.