He watched them fall. Slowly at first, but then gaining momentum. Pebbles from problematic rooftops. Sirens. Laughing. Running. Screaming. Sights to see from somber views. He’s been here for a while. Looking. Staring. Standing. Leaning.
Inhale.
Pain and guilt.
Crescent circles stalk his mother’s eyes, a purple-blue faded into a pulsing heart.
Love.
For the fiery fists flung in her direction. For the daily dose of damage between subtle sips of vodka, and silent swearings
of his sister.
Exhale.
The early morning's 'hide and seek' had sent wood chips flying south of the headboard from the unhinged doors. Against the clatter of glass bottles falling, Jean stumbled in to find the sobbing boy under the thin mattress, "It’s not enough."
His vision blurred
as heavy, hot tears
slid down his face.
Another breath.
His face crumbled as he recalled the chilling look in Jean’s eyes. The trembling thumb pushed against the back of the barrel. The click. He touched his forehead in reverence to the fear he felt when that fatal circle was pushed against his head. Felt the heat of the impatient bullet through the tunnel stuck between his eyes. Saw the flexed fingers of Jean. The threat of imminent doom.
He had graced death’s doorstep. Stood in her doorway, but that day she slammed the door in his face. Jean pulled the barrel from between his eyes and glared, “Try some shit like that again, and you’re dead! You hear me pal,” he growled.
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Kameelah Brower-Daniel