BLACKBiiRDS

7 | R O M A N

M A R C H  1 8 | F R I D A Y

This was a mistake... Roman regretted as he slouched further into the soft leather seat of the Mustang. Why did I come back here again?

It was ten am, so why was there so much traffic? Morning rush hour had passed, right? Not according to the sea of red lights that lay ahead of where he idled, it stretched at least a couple miles. There must've been an accident some time ago, and a bad one, because I-95 was so far backed up, Roman's estimated arrival was now two hours behind schedule.

Mitch's flight offer crossed his mind more than once, but Roe had never been on a plane before. And sure as hell wasn't about to get on one for the first time by himself. He didn't need extra stress or anxiety at this time in life.

This nineteen-hour trip had stretched into nearly twenty-four hours, minus the break Roman took to sleep on a back road under some trees. His initial goal was to muscle through the whole thing, nonstop, and get back to Philly as soon as possible.

But that adrenaline burned out about ten hours in. It was around midnight when his car swerved so hard into the right lane, his whole body jerked to the side, that he humbled himself enough to pull over and get some rest.

The drive had forced him into some much-avoided quality time with himself. No matter how loud he blasted his music or how many times he cruise controlled through a hotboxing session, his mind still managed to wander off, his conscious consumed with affliction.

He'd thought on it so much during the drive, that the decision was concrete the closer he inched back into center city Philadelphia.

He was going to be homeless.

His brother not only left him his car, his money (both the legal accounts and his unaccounted stashes), but also the keys to his brand new condo in Olde City. Roman lost track of the number of times he lay on his mother's sofa during his two months back home in New Orleans, uncomfortable and stupid-looking with his long limbs dangling off the sides, that he couldn't wait to get back to Philly and unlock the doors to his brother's place.

The thought was appetizing, especially while tolerating conditions that aren't even up to par with what was waiting for him.

But after twenty-two hours of nothing but his thoughts, his grief, and the emotionally exhausting conversations with God about why He took his brother from him, Roman had completely given up on the condo.

"Damnnn," Roe drawled, his head rotating slowly as he passed by the two smoking cars. They looked like they were bent in half by demons that decided to play with them as toys.

His rolled past a blue Toyota that was missing the front fender with the hood blasted open, then the last two cars in the worse condition of them all, as if the demons chewed the cars up and spit them back out. Roman shook his head at the tragedy, and at his sick, dark imagination. The entire scene was stretched out so wide, blocking up three of the four-lane highway, it made him immediately regret his impatient cursing from a half-hour ago.

He muttered, "Lord, whoever was hurt, cover them and their families," and kept it pushing.

Usually, and for the majority of his drive back, Roe wouldn't drive any slower than eighty miles per hour. The highways and expressways were his playground, where he could push up to at least ninety, ninety-five, and one-o-five in the middle of the night. His brother's 540 horsepower Stang was the perfect outlet for his adrenaline.

Keeping in mind the scene he just witnessed, he kept the speed at around seventy and swerved lanes and cars till he could eat up a long stretch of space.