Eyes on You // Awsten Knight

one

For the record, that half of the sandbox was supposed to be mine.

There had been laws. Rules that us children had put into place in order to keep the sandbox a safe space. A place of amusement, not a place of conflict. I had made a deal with the older boys who frequented the box as much as I did. They let me have my side if they got their own space. Of course I agreed to this, it was perfect! I had my own seven feet of free-range sand! For a six year old, that was quite a lot of room.

It was the late afternoon on a Friday when the boys broke their vows. Harold had decided to bring his friends from the neighboring elementary school. With a name like Harold, you could assume that this kid had a problem with sharing. Thinking about it later, I figured it was probably because his ancestors totally colonized the country. It made sense that he'd steal my sandbox space. I tried to use my peaceful words. Believe me, I did. When the third graders invaded my half, I had told them politely to move, as I was right in the middle of some very important business. My bright yellow Tonka truck sat in the crevice of my crossed legs as I threw handfuls of sand into its container. Harold's friends were building a highway in my space and despite my complaints, they ignored me.

"You can't be here!" I had cried out, crossing my chubby little arms. Once again, the boys payed me no mind. I jumped to my feet, my green sandals digging into the sand. I was going to defend my rights as an independent female construction worker, and there was nothing that any one of these boys could do to stop me. I had always been the anarchist type.

"Hey!" I yelled. Finally, Harold took notice of me.

I stomped my foot against the ground. "You need to go. This is my space!" My face flushed red with anger when I saw Harold laughing at me.

"Get out of here, Kitty." He motioned me away. "No girls allowed." He said, turning back to his friends.

I had heard that phrase far too many times in my six years of being alive, and it never failed to make me furious. My cousins had said it, the kids at daycare said it, and now Harold? This was the final straw. I clenched my tiny fists together, the rage of a thousand angry middle-aged moms coursing through my veins. I made a grab for the Tonka truck, hoisting it above my head. Harold had his knees on the ground, the back of his black hair facing towards me. This was my time to shine. He was at my mercy, and I was ready to play god. With a loud grunt, I chucked the truck at the back of Harold's head. The minuscule yellow vehicle collided against his skull with an unsatisfying thud.

For the briefest of moments, there was silence. The sound of the playground roared in my ears as kids ran across the red play structure. The metallic squeaks of the swings carried on as the boys in the sandbox stared at me in utter shock.

That's when Harold began to scream. His wails pierced the air, causing most of the parents to instinctively jump to attention.

"Kitty killed me! I'm dying!" He clutched the back of his head. My eyes frantically darted  around the area. Nobody had made any movements to help him, and I figured that this was my time to make an exit. I made a fast grab for the truck, and hurdled out of the sandbox. Harold's cries echoed behind me as my feet pounded into the ground, running out of the chain-link fence of the playground.

My neighborhood was like an island. It was a sheltered paradise from a crime-infested city. It was the upper middle class white family's dream. The houses I ran past were old, and all unique. The lush oak trees had reached their summer peak, and a raindrop from this morning's shower would fall onto my face from the shaded leaves. I dodged dog-walkers and parents with strollers on the time-worn sidewalk, and my feet had become wet from the puddles on the ground. My eyes had begun to swell with tears.