chapter 1

him

"Hey," he says to me in a raspy voice. He's on the corner of the block this time around, and his white ivory hair drapes over his shoulders with that braid that curls against his shoulder tied with a little black hairband. I think about how from here, it looks like a feather. He reminds me of a dove.

The ground underneath me is a depressing gray with clear flaws and cracks. On certain afternoons, when the sun shines in between the cracks, sprouts of greenery prodding through. They squirm to fight their way out. Sometimes I stomp on them - but not on purpose. He's told me not to before, and when I remember to, I don't. But most times I don't remember it at all.

"Hey, ▇▇," I slow my haste. It takes a minute for me to catch my breath. I look at her, and she's looking at me, and we're looking at each other. I feel the sweat trickle down my face. I feel the wind whistle through the chip in my tooth that I lost recently. My sneakers press against the sidewalk's greenery. Underneath my shoes, dandelion fuzz bends underneath it. My arm props against the stop sign, and I'm cheesing. "Man, I'm … I'm fuckin', like, I'm fuckin' sweating. I'm not no runner, you know me."

And he says something back, but all I can remember is that it's simple. He's a simple man. Never did he talk more than he had to. Never a man of glutton. Doesn't take more than he has to. I always appreciated that. Whatever he says, I think it meant something to me, as inconsequential as it was, because eventually we both look both ways before we cross the black road - hands held into each other's hands - and I dart across at his pace. Afterwards, we're both roaming down the street, hands separated, but still close.

"You know, it's my birthday soon." I say.

"Did you get me anything?"

He tells me something. It blurs out in the back of my mind.

"You're tuggin' my collar."

He says he isn't.

And about 20 or so years later, the photograph sits in my shirt pocket, unmoving, for as long as I live. When I felt blood fill my mouth, I liked to think about the time we made toasts with juice boxes full of Fruit Punch. In times where you feel nothing but blunt strikes and screaming that rings your ears as sticky skin slaps against you..where grown men cry, and fists align against every part you didn’t think they could -

Somehow, all you can think about is just; "I wonder what it’s like to be him."

Now his name is ▇▇, but I thought it was always just a nickname. Never bothered to ask him because I never saw a reason to. While I’m bleeding out, I think about how it must feel when you’re sitting and looking out a window and watching clouds. I think about the fact that he’s probably out there somewhere, God who knows where, tracing his finger along the rim of a cup of tea while he talks to someone worth his time. I figured I was his pushover, but hey, can’t get the bad without the good.

In his world, I like to think he’s in a vast, white field of flowers. Grass underneath him that stretches for miles. There’s a singular tree he rests underneath that offers his pale skin the shade, but his long hair is sprawled out against the surface. He’s looking up through the leaves, squinting - and probably finding minimal meaning out of it, but I like to think that every so often, he’ll point and go - “That’s a ducky, Toro.”

And when I turn to answer him to confirm what he’s saying to me, I smile, and my teeth are red.

And he doesn’t think that it’s all that bad. In fact, he laughs at me for a second, pauses, and goes - "What happened to you?"

And I close my eyes as another strike is delivered to my gut, answering him,

"Nothing I can’t survive. I’m fine."

The sun tilts in a way where it illuminates his face, so he’s squinting with a hand hovering over his eyes. He sighs, and goes (in all his infinite wisdom) -

"He’s gonna..get you in the chin."

And the impact lands, and my eyes shoot open, and I start to realize that there may be a chance that salvation died with Greece.

Never could a human being bleed like this.

And then another. My ears are ringing, but I hear the guy go - "You’re right, he …. never thought I’d feel this …"

Another.

And another.

Until the blood against the burlap wrapped around my head feels like it’s housing too much hot blood. I’m wheezing, coughing, but the last thing I’m doing is talking. I think that’s what they want me to do. I’m not doing it because they want me to, but because there’s nothing interesting I could say through such tight barriers of time where I value air over words. Everything feels red in this moment. Behind the man’s head, when I look at him - the pasty yellow light looks like it illuminates a halo.

I never thought much of it until now. It definitely meant something, I’d think. Now looking back on it - think I went wrong, and that was one of God’s disciples speaking for him. I think in some weird sense it made me feel..vindicated for everything until then.

If you’re another person to God, then you’re good as scum.

If he spits on you and sends his worst to come - well, doesn’t he care?