The antiseptics tease my senses until we exit the hospital. Outside, the noxious bodies of smoke besiege me as I am carried by a woman who now holds a cigarette between her index and middle finger. The wisps of smoke snake upwards and ask out her ebony hair to dance. For a split second they both twist and spin together to the imaginary music they are tapping to. But eventually, the smoke fades away and now her hair dances alone in the breezy winds as the white roll between her fingers gets shorter and shorter. Its lifeless powdery residue sinks to the ground with a soft thud and a glowing crimson color.
I am in the woman’s pocket surrounded by lint and the extra change she got today from the man who sold her a cup of Turkish coffee. My ivory handle peaks from her pocket and reminds me of how vicious I am. Even my creation required murder and death.
Today the woman is a stranger to me. Who or what she has become, I do not know. For the smiley daughter and loving sister she was yesterday is gone and nowhere to be seen.
Malika. Dead. Papa. In a coma. Mama. Traumatized by it all. And myself, thirsty for revenge. Vengeance entwines my every thought as my sneakers crush whatever it is that is on the ground. Vengeance, ahhh such a discredited topic but it makes me happy. I like to look at it as a type of karma, a type that’s faster, more efficient, and more importantly one I can control. I remember the dagger in my pocket as it taps my hips with every step I take. They can play their shitty gang games, they can slaughter, they can kill, and I’ll play the role of the underdog, the deadbeat, the flop, the failure. But then a couple years, months, days, or hours later we’ll switch roles. I’ll be the lioness and they’ll be a zebra. Soon, they’d find their wallet gone missing, or their phone stolen, or their house raided or a knife plunged so deep into their chests they’d find their lives taken. I push the dagger further into my pocket and by then it is a cancer, my hunger for revenge is a cancer that has reached its fourth stage. I need a cure; one I would create myself. It would be cold. Brutal. Unforgiving. It would be a dish best served cold.
Darkness surrounds me as I am pushed deeper into her pocket. I tap her hips gently as she continues to walk. Good. This means she’s not using me. Good.
My retinas are triggered. That’s him.
Whoosh! She pulls me out of her pocket. The lights smolder my retinas and there is a twinkle of a second where the metal of my blade meets his skin and his skin meets my metal. “I’m sorry” I whisper to him.
Comments