I walked through the streets with my gun tucked beneath my shirt, inside the waist of my jeans. The warm air stirred my mad blood, bringing about paranoia and disconsolation. In my paranoia, I examined every truck as it passed by, in place of smiles, I glared. In place of peace, there was chaos. Each man I walked by looked into my eyes just as I did in return, his visage often mirroring the anxiety in mine, masked loosely by a silently exchanged formality. As I continued walking, three men were pulled over by two women in a white pick-up. The men hollered at them, then the women tucked their heads into their knees. For a moment, there was silence. I could hear each cicada sing in the tree tops, each car in the city humming a low bass note, each bird singing a soft call, then moments later a response. This peace lasted for a wondrous moment, only to be disquieted by the elegy of a fired bullet hanging in the arid summer air. Two of the large men fell to the ground, blood spilling from fresh wounds. The third man was consumed by a wave of rage that he expressed with a pensive scream that hung in the summer air. My legs reacted without my instruction, and certainly, my body followed. A bullet fired in the other direction as I ran away. My blood curled as scream after scream pierced my ears.
Tormenting me, however, was the knowledge that there would be no action unless a fire thrown onto a building. He would never see his friends again, and he would never see their killers in jail. I knew, that that man, would fill his heart with anguish and rage, and he would become rapt with destroying those who destroyed his peace, and he would take their lives as well. But I knew, it is consistent, and there were populations, generations, of men and women with meals missing from their dinner tables.
I ran, and I ran, and I ran, until my lungs were filled with flame, and moments before my head became faint, and my body disobedient, the small brown shingled roof and ruddy white walls of my uniform home entered my field of vision. Digging through the soil of the dying fern in front of my home, I pulled a small key and pushed it into the iron bars defending the vulnerable glass doors. In two swift motions, I opened the door. I dug a small hole and placed the key inside it, covering it, like a dog would with its bone. I entered my house, the burgundy walls kind to my eyes, the large wooden table, occupied by my mother sitting alone eating from a plastic container of mac and cheese. Clearly, I had entered mid-bite, as she chewed with her mouth half open, food sloshing about in her mouth. The noise grated upon my patience, but with her, my patience was limitless. Momma sat with the table set perfectly, every piece of cutlery aligned perfectly, her red solo cup placed adjacent to her cutlery. But, her table manners contrasted her sloppy eating habits. She sat with perfect posture, but her mouth, with a small bit of red lipstick still lingering on her upper lip, still sloshed that food. She perked her head up, taking the napkin sitting on her left, unfolding it, then wiping the remnants of cheese from her lips, finally ending the disgusting sound, so quiet, so pervasive, and so obnoxious.
"What you doin' coming home so late?" She asked. Her voice was soft, she had a habit of becoming far quieter when she was somnolent.
"There's some roadblocks on the route home. They held me back a few minutes, Momma." I lied. I knew that this would be one lie she would not see through, because the truth was too far fetched.
"Ah, well, can't do nothing about that now can we?" She stood up from the table and picked up a plate from the kitchen counter. She placed a plate of macaroni and cheese, mashed potatoes, and baked chicken in front of me, the different pieces of the meal kept apart from each other.
We ate quietly at the table until Momma paused for a moment to speak.
"One of yo' friends stopped by earlier," she took another spoonful of macaroni, chewing it sloppily, making that god damn sloshing noise, then wiping her mouth once again, and continuing to speak. "She was talkin' about you goin' over to her house later. She wanted to know if you were here. I told her you'd be back later so you oughta text her and let her know whether you'll be heading over." She ran her fingers through her short, straight black hair, languidly and continued eating.
