bReAtHtAkInG
Idiotic. What was I thinking? Everyone always said I jumped the gun. My intricate decision making and well-thought out plan resembled that of an early century voyager, intelligent enough to realize there was more to the world but stupid enough to believe they might just fall off they went to far. But I'd never admit that, I'd take it to my grave.
It's the horn of a 1954 Ford Crestline that extracts me from my internal conversation. Was I going crazy? I turned my focus from my sneaker-clad feet to the distinct surroundings. The cavity in which held my heart protectively became tight, like an oyster's shell. Skin taut over those bones that held me up, pupils shrinking adjusting to the dark sun. Panic washed over, defensive, clenching my fists. Run, run, run. Stop.
"Breathe." A hand unfurled my right. Rough yet so gentle, it curled amid my fingertips, caressing the top.
"Huh?" so breathlessly.
"Breathe." It was then that I noticed the burning in my lungs, the sensation I longed to feel in a moment of tenderness and intimacy, not suffocation and fear.
"Oh."
Like the initial shock of jumping into the depths of the chlorine-treated community pool, oxygen mingled with the blue blood coursing through my body, then racing together as one. I dropped his hand, checking to see if the traditional black hood covered my head. Shit. Unthinking, I must have slipped it over, casting shadows on my eyes dripping down my lips. I jerked it off. "Thank you," The hand belonged to a white boy.
Oh no. What had he done? "Keir, what the hell!" Right then, I took back that thank you.
Splayed out on the blacktop, I played BS with the Devil. The way my ragged breathing bounced off the two-lane street violated my ears; I needed to scream. Get up. It pulled at my limps limbs, and peered into my vacant orbs. You're like a deer... Who was once in headlights, but got hit and is seconds from death. Moving might be a good idea Kamali.
A car swerved, inches from my outstretched palms. Another swerved, and another. Skid. My left foot nearly pinned under the wheel.
"Hello? -Um yes I'd like to report a black woman in the road."
Who was going to help me now?
YOU ARE READING
There Is No Grey
Teen Fiction"What's it like to be pretty?" Pretty, attractive, cute, beautiful, blah blah blah. They were just words to her, she knew they didn't mean anything, they were just fluff. Besides what's the point in believing in those words if no one ever said them...
