Glory.

7

Y'know, they say a bad parent was a traumatized child, caught in the fires of their own suffering—their thoughts more hurricane than poetry or soul. I guess that's right.

I can attest to that. On both ends.

"God!" Blu shouted as I had fallen back into his arms. "Do you have a vest?" He questioned, we both fell backward, landing on the gritty pavement as I held back hot tears. I knew I was hit—I didn't know where. Everything hurt. "Yanis, do you have on a fuckin' vest?" I did. He'd nagged me about wearing one underneath my top previously so I instinctively put one on earlier.

I was shot four times and got shrapnel from a fifth shot in my neck—three of the bullets were caught in my vest. "You're okay, you're okay." Blu said, not sure if he was believing his own words. "Breathe." I figured he was reassuring himself at this point. He'd genuinely seemed shaken up.

Once in the hospital, I found out that the fourth entered my chest between the sternum and shoulder, exited my back above the shoulder blade and lodged in the back panel of the vest. The shrapnel cuts were similar to paper cuts on my neck, except they bled a lot more than a small cut. The gun was a .380 and honestly, I felt them hit my vest—they were similar to really hard fucking punches but I didn't notice the actual wound until I realized I couldn't lift my arm all the way up. It was a numb until my realization—now it throbbed with a burning pain.

I'd been stabbed, tased, knocked the hell out, everything in between but being shot? A feeling I hoped I'd never feel again.

For a short moment, when I thought I was going to die, right there, in that horrible fucking neighborhood—I was only thinking about myself. I was thinking of all the things I was going to miss out on, all the unfinished projects—unread books, unwatched shows, uneaten meals and unbooked flights. My life was unlived and it was all I was worried about. Did that make me selfish? I didn't think about my dying mother, my estranged sisters, my estranged family. Only me.

I lie in the hospital bed, staring at the painfully white ceiling. The monitor beeps and loud speaking from the tv was keeping me from drifting back into another nap—the lunch for the day grew cold at my bedside. I wanted a fucking beer, not apple sauce. "Fuck me," I facepalmed, exasperating.

I got shot. Four times.

"No thank you." The door creaked open, revealing Blu. He chuckled, closing it behind him. In his full hands, he held flowers, a bear and a card.

"Gifts?" I smirked, propping myself up the best I could—since I had one functioning arm.

"Oh, these aren't from me." He set them down. "They're from the desk sergeants and a lovely lady by the name of," he stretched the last word and he dug through the flowers, in search of a notecard. "Brooke." He quirked his eyebrow up curiously. We both held a confused look as I thought for a moment. "Wouldn't want the wife to see that one." That, however, did stop me in my tracks—wife? The hell was he talking about?

"Fuck off," I remarked before he could question me and before I could confuse myself even more. "You find who did it?" His expression seemed to harden once he sat down, adjusting his jacket.

"Two women—the one who'd shot you is dead. The team killed her, other woman claims it was an accident. They were scared and had drugs in the apartment," He filled me in, hesitating to speak again. "A kid too." I didn't exactly feel an ounce of guilt for the deceased victim. She could've killed me for fucks sake! And waving a gun around with a child in the same home? I wasn't exactly perfect but what the fuck.

"The body?" I asked, intentionally changing the subject. I didn't want to dwell too much.

"Well, you noticed the sim–" The creaky door sliced the sentence in half. My gaze averted to the culprit of the noise—it felt as if my heart exploded. The monitor's beep quickened, as Blu curiously looked onward.

Her nose was wider, lips plumper, face rounder. She gained weight. And when my eyes brushed against her enlarged abdomen, it clicked. She was obviously pregnant. Probably no more than six months. "Yanis?" She whispered, looking as if a ghost was standing before her. Her eyes went glossy and my lips parted. She was still the kind of girl that women loved to hate. She was an adult, of course, but so young that she still had the exuberance of youth.

Victoria still had that movie star look, not overly tall and willowy, but more like an action star. Her muscle definition was perfect and she never stopped walking with the confidence of someone a decade older. She wasn't just flawless in her bone structure, her skin was like silk over glass and she radiated an intelligent beauty...still.

"Mommy," An awkward toddler spoke. He looked to be between three and five. His hair was sandy and skin too bright to be descended from my west African roots. Please be your sister's.

My mouth felt wired shut as I stared at the little being. He couldn't have been her sister's—he had her brown eyes and incredibly large ears. I noticed he developed her Otosclerosis too; the blonde boy sported a shiny hearing aid. "Mommy." He cried again softly, stuffed giraffe in hand as he moved closer to your leg.

Mommy?

I felt pained.

She didn't move on without me. She couldn't have.

"Jude, its okay." She reassured him. Jude was our name.

As I stared longer, I noticed that she did look slightly different. Her hair was shorter. Did she do the big chop? I liked it but she wouldn't have done it with me. I loved her long hair. She was beautiful nonetheless—my Tori. "Tori," I began finally, my mouth dryer than I could remember.

"Don't you dare." The little boy cowered behind her, flinching at her harsh tone as he covered his mouth with his small, pale hand. "Would you excuse us?" She turned to Blu who was just as stunned as me. Her pale face was hardened and red, freckled as I had always remembered it. Middle age was suiting Victoria rather well.

Blu left nonetheless, not before giving me a sympathetic look.

Now, it was just us. Me, Tori and Jude. Little Jude—his hazel orbs burned holes into me as he stared from behind her leg. He was beautiful but he couldn't have been mine. He didn't look like me. His age fit about right—our unforgettable one night stand four years ago—but he couldn't have been mine.  I felt nothing for him. No fatherly instinct, no longing for his hug or need for him to call me 'Dad'. He was a stranger to me. "Ava?" I questioned, referring to my daughter. She was 13—my angel. Ava hated me, that was no secret.

"She's sitting in the waiting room." Victoria seethe. "And don't even pretend like you care."

"Honestly, why the hell are you here?" I shot back. "Huh? Why are you here if you guys can't stand me? If I'm just that bad of a person?" I was now on the verge of yelling as anger boiled my blood. At the same time, what did I expect? I knew the day we'd reunite, it wouldn't be pleasant. Despite Jude's frightened look and jump with every word that came from my mouth, his eyes still pierced mine. He curiously stared at me—almost like I was some kind of peculiar animal that he was studying.

"I honestly hoped I'd get to see the day that you finally die." Silence blanketed over the room as she held a poker face. "When they'd called me and said that you were hurt, I assumed the worst," her gaze averted to her feet–or belly. "I thought you were dead and was overwhelmed with grief. I couldn't stop crying as we drove here then it dawned on me." She looked back at me, tears racing down her rosy cheeks as I sat in silence. "If you were to die, it would all be the same. It would be as regular a day as any other." Her disregard for Jude's presence was startling. Victoria was never one to swear in front of children. "You left us long before you died."