by Malik Will
The ride back to Natchitoches was a horrid one. All those memories left behind as if they never happened. It was like we never existed. But we did. Now my friends’ flesh is embedded into the city’s soil, mixing with old gangsters that hustled before them. I’d imagine they spoke about certain trespasses and how life sometimes encapsulates us into roles we never really asked to play. But we have, unbeknownst to us, that the end is tragic.
I was lost. Who would have thought that this little city underneath the sea, would be the thing that found me, and at the same time, the same thing that drowned me?
The memory of their faces was haunting. It still is. Every day I am plagued with silent reminders of them all. It’s usually the smallest of things, like the sparkling of the sun, that reminds me of the days we spent musing at Lake Pontchartrain. Or maybe it’s the rain and how it drips from the clouds, similar to how her tears would fall.
The night I drove back to Natchitoches, I thought of her nonstop because it rained like never before. The winds roared like never before, and shook the leaves right from the trees. They cried the same tears the clouds provided. Right before me, the ground cracked its first smile ever when the concrete splintered. As the car tumbled down this chaotic road, the mountain that was never there before, rose and then fell. Soon the entire forest sighed was it lit up in flames. While the blaze intensified, I exited the vehicle and dropped to my knees, covering myself in an old blanket my sister gave me years before and closed my eyes. When I finally reopened them, I was greeted by a familiar voice that whispered, “What are you doing here, Daniel?”
After clearing my eyes and gazing closer, the face grew more familiar. It was my mom. She stood over me as I lay in bed. It was as if it was four years ago and I was still 14 years old.
“What are you doing here, Danny?”
“Wh-where am I?”
“You’re home, son.” She placed a warm towel across my brow.
“Home?”
“Yes, son. You’re home.”
I looked around. Nothing had really changed.
“We thought you were dead,” she said.
“We’ll I’m not, Mama. By the way, did Caroline ever make it back?”
She covers mouth with her hands as it tremors. “Son... You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Your sister...she’s...”
“She’s what?!”
“She’s dead. She’s gone.”
“What do you mean dead?!”
“She is, son.”
“No...no...no...she left before me!”
“She is, Danny. And that monkey is gonna fry for that.”
“Monkey?!”
“Yeah, you heard me right. The sheriff says your sister was palling around town with some nigger. He the one who killed her. He would’ve met his maker a long time ago, but we hoped the bastard would at least tell us where her body is. But he couldn’t even do that. I only wish your father was here to see him burn!”
“Where’s Papa?”
“Your daddy passed not too long after your sister. I guess his little old heart couldn’t handle it.”
“And you could?” I asked.
Her eyes stare into space. “You know I never understood.”
“Understood what?”
“Why you blamed me for what your daddy did? You think I asked for him to hurt me, son? You think I wanted that?”
“No, I don’t. But you never once stood up for yourself or for us.”
“Us? Your daddy never put his hands on you!”
“But what about Caroline! And you…you just let him do what he wanted.”
“I was scared! I’m so sorry, Danny. If I could have stopped him from hurting me and your sister, I would have!”
She became hysterical. Her eyes watered, her face red like autumn foliage, riddled with guilt from sins not her own.
It was right there the wounds my father had placed descended upon her. And as her old eyes filled ever more with bitter tears, I reached for her hand and pulled her close, laying her head on my shoulder. She cried out for all those years she couldn’t. I consoled her just by repeating a single sentence.
“It’s okay, Momma. It’s okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Hands that Shed Innocent Blood
