by D. F. Noble
***
It's raining like a bitch, and I'm soaked head to toe. Lightning turns the world blinding white for a second, and then thunder roars, cracks like a bomb above me. My feet are all squishy in my shoes, and I think I might have taken a wrong turn somewhere because I don't remember this street. A lot of the windows are boarded up, and the street signs are missing. A car drives past me, splashes me with water, and I don't even stop, just keep walking and thinking about beating the shit out of my mom.
Fucking cheating bitch. Fucking junkie. She's screwing my dad over, and now screwing me over, too.
I walk out of the business district, and I'm in a different neighborhood now. I don't recognize this place. Definitely in the wrong part of town. It’s even more run-down than I'm used to and I'm starting to get paranoid. There are bars over the windows on some houses, broken glass on the sidewalks, and most of the yards have grass that are knee-high. My fingers tighten around the knife in my pocket. I carry it always, even to school. Don't care if I get caught. They can suspend me or send me to jail, whatever. There's real shit to worry about.
Headlights behind me, I turn and see a car coming up real slow. Keep walking, I think, but the hairs on my neck start to stand up. I don't like this. My gut is turning. The car, it's beat to hell, but the rims are nice, they shine and glint in the rain and the windows are tinted black. It pulls beside me, pacing me. The driver's side window cracks, opens a bit and smoke rolls out, coiling up in the rain.
It's a Mexican guy. Maybe in his twenties, I can't tell. “You lost?”
“Just walking home,” I say, every fiber in my body telling me to run.
“You a long way from home, kid,” he says, and takes a hit off a cigar—it doesn't smell like a cigar, though. “This is a bad place for your kind, partna. Why'nt you jump in and I'll take your ass home? Last thing this hood needs is a damn dead white kid.”
Then the back window starts to roll down and my heart races. A few inches down and I see red. A red hat. My heart thumps and then sinks down in my stomach. “Wait,” I hear, before I even see his face, “I know this motherfucker!”
I run. I run as fast as I can.
***
I cut between two houses, slip in the mud. I hear a car door slam behind me, and it just fuels me to run faster. Get up! Go, go! Chris has found me. Caught me totally off guard. I'm fucked, so fucked. Lightning arcs across the sky, and thunder rumbles, crrrr-aaack! Ba-Boom! I head around the back of the house, and more slide through the back yard than run through it. Fucking slick. There's a chain-link fence ahead of me. I scale it, topple over and rip my pants at the top, and hit the ground on the other side on all fours.
I look back. There's Chris, his red hat and white shirt, holding his pants up and coming down between the houses. I hear a rattle of a chain ahead of me and look up. A Doberman Pinscher shoots out of a dog house, comes right for me, not even barking. Fuck-fuck!
The dog leaps. I see its open maw and raise my hands. All those teeth, oh, fuck my life. I wait for one terrible dreadful moment to feel its fangs rip into me, and I close my eyes. But there comes an erk sound and I look up. The chain's pulled tight and the dog snarls just inches from my face. I get up and shoot to the right, just as I hear Chris hit the chain-link fence.
I slip between houses and slide the knife out of my pocket. I cross a street, leaping over potholes so I don't break an ankle, and I'm in someone else's back yard, hopping a raggedy wooden fence. Trees meet me on the other side, and I dive through, slipping down a muddy hill in the rain. Thorns tear at me, but I keep going. Run till I can't. Breathing heavy. My side aches. I can't run anymore. Have to stop.
I see a thick branch, wide as my forearm and as long as my leg. I grab it and hide behind a tree to catch my breath. I wait. I listen. Only the pitter-patter of rain on the leaves for a moment, and cars in the distance, and low rumbles of thunder. It's getting dark. This is it. This is where it ends, for me or for him. Here in the rain, in these woods, one of us is going to die today.
I hear a crackle of limbs and twigs snapping. It's Chris coming down the hill. I don't know if he has a weapon or not. It doesn't matter. The city is his playground. This one is mine.
“I know you out here,” Chris says. He's somewhere behind me. Crunch, he takes a step. “Why don't you just come out, bitch? What 'choo afraid of?”
Crunch, crunch.
“I figure you better come out 'fore I get real mad,” he says, chiding me. “Got my kicks all fuckin’ muddy.”
Crunch, crunch. And then another sound, metal clanking on metal. I know that sound. The sound of a gun sliding shut, putting a round in the chamber. Fuck me…
“You just come with me, kid,” Chris says. “Just take a ride. I ain't gonna hurt you.” He laughs, snickers to himself. Crunch, crunch, crunch. He's close, real close. Maybe right behind me. I slow my breathing, tighten my grip on the branch and my knife.
“Fuck it,” Chris chuckles. “I know you close. I know you hear me. You remember Ronnie?”
I grit my teeth. I feel hate in me, like a furnace, boiling my blood.
“I remember him,” Chris says. “I remember how he cried and cried like a little bitch. I remember his brains, all splattered-
CRRR-AAACK!
Lightning, brilliant white, lights up the woods, striking somewhere close, so close my body tingles, so bright I'm blind for a split-second. This is it, my chance, only chance. I move around the tree, moving inside that whiteout.
I see his silhouette, just a dim outline in the snow-like whiteout. His one hand holding the gun, his other covering his eyes. I swing the branch, strike his wrist as hard as I can. Ka-pow! The gun goes off, kicks up dirt and leaves beside us, and then it falls from his hands. He grunts in surprise and I swing again, this time backhanded. The branch smacks across his face, snaps in two, and Chris stumbles back.
The white fades and the dark world returns. And here he is, this monster before me. Face bleeding, hat thrown off. His eyes are dazed and wide with shock. Two quick steps and I kick him in the balls, hit him again with the remaining piece of branch, and he slips, falls on his back.
Thunder shakes the world, and I leap onto his chest, knocking the air from his lungs. I drive my elbow into his face, again, again, the sharp, bony point of my joint rocking his head into the dirt. His hands come up, his thumbs try to dig into my eyes and I roll off him, come up on my feet with my knife.
“Get up!” I scream. “Get up and fight me!”
He laughs, sliding in the mud, trying to get to his feet. “I had you wrong, cracker. You got some fight in you.”
I let him get up, though I shouldn't. I want to beat him, take everything from him. First his pride, then his life. He stands and puts his hands up.
“Twice now I made you my bitch,” I say and circle him. “You're a bully. You're weak. Getting punked by a kid.”
“Shut your fuckin' mouth!” Chris screams and rushes forward. He swings wildly, and I duck the first one, but he catches me in the back of the head with an awkward left. I swipe out with my knife, open his arm up and move away.
“Fucking cut me?” he says. “You fucking cut me!”
Chris charges me like a bull, and I know he's too fast to dodge the tackle. So I drop, deadweight, and he flies over me. We make eye contact for a split-second as he goes. Then thud! Chris goes face-first into a tree behind us. I roll over, scurry to my feet. Chris paws up the tree, but I can tell he's dazed and his legs are shaky. I come up behind him to kick his legs out, but he snaps me across the face with a surprise backhand. I sidestep, taste blood, and back up.
Chris shakes his head like a dog, rubs his face.
“You ever actually fight somebody, “ I goad him, “or just pick on kids?”
“I picked your friend's brains off my shirt,” he spits, “when I put a bullet in his head.”
If he expects me to lose my cool and come at him, he's wrong. I've been practicing every day since Ronnie died for this. I'm going to take my tim
e, whittle his ass down.
Chris puts his hands back up; I think he's learned it’s not too smart to rush somebody. We circle each other, and I can see his eyes darting back and forth. He's looking for his gun.
I decide to close the distance. Not with a rush, but I step forward cautiously in Horse Stance, my free hand out first, and my knife tucked in close to my chest. Rain trickles down my forehead, and the wind cuts between the trees, wailing, whispering. Another crackle of lightning turns the dark to day, and I see him clearly. His face is scratched, and his lips and nose are swollen and bleeding. The left arm of his shirt is soaked with blood from the cut. It's his eyes, though. He's scared.
“Come on,” I say. “Do something.”
He does. He spits blood in my face. I'm blinded for a second, and then he hits me. His fist cracks me in the cheek and I slip in the wet leaves. He's already throwing another punch but I'm not there. His momentum spins him and he slips and lands on his side.
I kick him in the face, hard, and he rolls on his back again. I see him spit up blood and lean over on his elbow. I look beside me, and see the gun. I grab it, all wet and sleek and black, this little compact death machine. I turn it on him.
“Let me see your face,” I say, and he spits up more blood. He glances over at me. His dark features are hidden here in the shade of the rain and storm; only the whites of his eyes and glints of his bloody teeth are visible.
“Fuck you,” he grunts.
I aim, pull the trigger, and the gunshot cracks and echoes through the trees. The round throws up dirt and leaves and muck beside his head. “Let me see your fucking face!”
I leap forward, kick him in the ribs, in the groin, and again in the face. He's too weak to fight now. He's spent. But I'm not; I feel like an animal, I feel like the goddamned storm. I straddle him, plop my ass on his chest and put my knees on his forearms, pinning him down. I pistol-whip him across the mouth, and his front teeth crack and splinter. I hit him again in the eye, again in the ear.
I scream, and thunder roars with me. I slip the barrel in his mouth, and he moans.
“You killed my friend!” I scream, my voice breaking. “You killed a little kid! He didn't do anything! Why!? Tell me fucking why before I kill you! Tell me!”
Chris doesn't answer me. He's crying. He's not a tough guy. He's not as bad as he thinks. He's a boy, just a boy like me. He's a scared little animal in this shit-ass town, in this shit-ass world, pretending to be something he's not.
I step off him. “Get on your knees,” I say. “Come on.”
“Fuck you,” he cries. “Fuck you, you white piece of shit. Do it, you so tough. Do it, pull the trigger.”
I hear the crackle of branches, somebody coming through the brush and the trees. I stand back, lift the gun in that direction. From the brush the Mexican guy from the car appears. He's carrying a gun.
“Hold it,” I say, my weapon on him.
His eyes go wide, he looks from me, to Chris on the ground. “Whoa, whoa kid,” he says. “Take it easy.”
He's shifty. I don't like his eyes. He's smart. My finger tightens on the trigger.
“Shoot him, Paco,” Chris coughs. “Fucking snuck up on me. Shoot him, man.”
“Move and I'll kill you both,” I say.
Paco looks at Chris, back to me. His eyes lock on my gun. “Listen, kid. Slow down. I ain't got beef with you. Keep that piece off me.”
I point it at his face instead.
“Okay, okay,” Paco says. “I'm gonna put my gun in my belt, see? Real slow. Don't shoot. Whatever you got with him, that's between you two.”
“Fuck you, Paco!” Chris wails. “Shoot his ass!”
“Shut your mouth,” Paco hisses. “Pendejo. Cabron! You got your ass whipped by a kid, now he got a gun on me! You shut up, or I'll leave you here!”
Paco turns, looks at me. He slides the pistol into his belt and raises his hands. “See, kid? No beef. Why'nt you let me take this punta outta here? We go our different ways. No harm, no foul. You don't want to kill somebody, hear? You don't want that shit on your chest, lil' man.”
I keep the gun on Paco; I don't trust him. Chris is trying to sit up, but he's beat to shit. I'm not worried about him. “He killed my friend, Ronnie. Ronnie was just a kid. He was in the sixth grade and Chris killed him 'cause he tried beating us up in an alley. I kicked his ass, and he killed Ronnie for it. He's not going anywhere. You turn around, Paco. You just go.”
Paco cocks an eyebrow. “You killed a kid?”
“He's lying, Paco,” Chris moans. “ I didn't kill no kid!”
“He the one that stabbed you, beat your head open? You said it was white guys.”
“He's lying!”
I say, “That was me. I stabbed him with a pencil. Hit him with a brick when he was choking me. I was just a kid.”
Paco spits on Chris, “Pinche pendejo!” Paco moves quick, kicks Chris in the ribs and I still keep the gun on him. “I put word in for you, homes!” Another kick in the ribs. “I put my NAME in for you, homes! And you out here trying to kill kids? Piece of shit! Stupid fuckin' nigger!”
Chris is crying full-fledged now, and lightning arcs across the sky above us. Paco kicks Chris one more time and turns to me. “Lil' man,” Paco says to me. “Why'nt you run on home, aye? Let me deal with this. You forget my name. You forget his name. Forget all this.”
I think for a moment. “And if he comes back for me?”
“He ain't comin' back for nuthin,” Paco says, and his eyes remind me of a snake’s: cold and black. He's a killer, I can see it. There's something unspoken between us. Paco is going to kill Chris.
“I'm keeping this,” I say, lowering the gun a bit.
He nods. “It's yours, homie. You earned it.”
Thunder rumbles again, and I slip into the shadows. I run, and still I can hear Chris crying. I run till I see headlights and the glimmer of water on a street down the hill through the trees. I run till I hear a gunshot. Just one sharp crack reverberating through the night.
It's over.
***
When I make it home, it's full dark, and the rain has let up a bit. I slosh up the driveway, my shoes feeling like sponges, and I can see the lights are on in the house. I see my mom pacing back and forth through the living room window with the phone pressed to her ear.
That long walk home, I was in peace. A long ugly chapter in my shithole life was closed. Chris Red Cap, done. Ronnie, rest in peace. Maybe there was justice in the world. Maybe things could go on, get better. Seeing mom through the window, that takes my peace away. I'm shivering cold. My clothes are ripped, I'm covered in thorns and my lip is fat and busted. And on top of all that, there's a dead man's pistol stuffed into the back of my pants.
I take a breath and step inside. I'm immediately struck by Wesley's ear-piercing screams, and my mom stops in the living room, says to the phone, “Oh god! He's here! Just walked in! Okay, okay!”
She hangs up and runs over to me, “Baby! I'm so sorry! Where have you been? I was so worried, I-”
I push her away and she stumbles back and lands on the couch. I point at her and say, “Keep away from me.” I lock eyes with her for only a second, then head to my bedroom and slam the door.
“Jake,” she mumbles. I hear her feet echoing down the hallway. Right outside my door. “Are you alright? I'm so sorry. I was worried sick about you.”
“Save it,” I tell her and start stripping my clothes off. I slide the pistol between the mattress and box spring. I've never talked back to my mom before. At this point, I don't even give a shit. She's not a mother, and I'm not a son to her anymore.
She walks in and I'm standing in my underwear, covered in cuts and scrapes from thorns, my face swollen from where Chris got a punch in. Her eyes look me over, and her face is ragged with worry.
“Did somebody beat you up?”
I grab some clothes from the dresser. All I want right now is a shower and for her to be out of my face. “It's over. Go take your pil
ls and leave me alone.”
She slaps me then, right across the mouth.
“I don't know what's gotten in you,” she says, her whole body shaking, “but I am your mother, and you do not speak to me like that.”
I stare at her, cold. Not even hate anymore, just disgust. “You stopped being my mother when you started fucking around on dad.”
Her jaw drops open, surprised, like I didn't fucking know. She rears back to slap me again, and I block it, wrap her arm up and bend her wrist back till she's down on her knees. I'm only in the 8th grade, but I'm taller than her, and way stronger. I could beat the life out of her right now if I chose, but I don't hit girls. Even if they're stupid and crazy, I won't hit them.
Instead I push her back against the wall and lean in close, bending her wrist back hard enough that she cries out. “When I tell you to stay away from me,” I hiss, “you better fucking listen.” I crank her wrist some more. “Do you hear me?”
“Jake, let go!”
“Answer me!”
I crank harder; any farther and I'll snap her wrist.
She cries out, “I hear you!”
I let her go and step back. She kneels over, weeping. “From now on,” I say, “I just live here. You keep your distance from me and I'll let you know when I want to talk to you, cuz right now, you fucking disgust me. Now get out of my room.”
Her eyes are watery and glassy when she looks up at me. Her mouth trembles as if she's ready to say something, but she just holds her wrist, gets up and walks out. By the time she gets out of the hallway she breaks down sobbing and wailing so hard it sounds like she might throw up.
I don't feel anything for her. The only thing I feel right now is power. Something is growing inside of me. Like there's some jungle cat stalking back and forth behind bars, and now the cage is open.
C hapter 3
