Street (Urban Fiction)

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Seven

"Baby." Momma rushed over to me when I walked through the door. He hair was disheveled and her face was tear streaked. At that moment, she wasn't the put together woman I grew up watching.

She threw her arms around me and wrapped me tight, rocking us from side to side as her hands patted my back. She was muttering incoherently, or maybe it was coherent. Maybe I was suffering from some sort of hearing loss. I don't know. All I knew was that I felt so drained.

I hadn't showered since the day before; I hadn't slept; and I hadn't eaten. I felt filthy and drained. Hearing momma's sniffles caused my body to go rigid before pulling away from her embrace.

"Did I do—" she hiccupped. Her watery eyes held nothing but sadness, and I couldn't be around that.

"I just...I've gotta go shower," I said, flashing her a weak smile before briskly walking away. Once I made it into my room, I quickly turned the lock on my door. As I leaned against it, I counted backwards from ten and took slow, even breaths.

It's just a bad dream. Dreams aren't real, I thought. "As soon as I wake up, the first thing I'm going to do is flush this damn dream," I muttered.

Grabbing my towel and something to change into, I unlocked the door and headed straight into the bathroom. I don't know how long I spent in the tub. After repeatedly scrubbing my body, hoping the feeling of Mario's blood would leave me, I decided to fill the tub up and just sit there.

I hoped everything I was feeling would seep out of my pores and into the bath water.

"Risha...go."

I took a deep breath and dunked myself under the water. The only way to overcome pain was with even more pain, so I didn't pull myself back up until I felt that burning sensation in my lungs. Maybe then my mind would focus on that and not the memories of him. Every time I felt my mind drifting, I'd dunk myself down and hold my breath until my chest tighten. Until the burning in my lungs became unbearable.

It was like I was the torturer and the person being tortured. Both a prisoner of the war waging in my head and the soldier holding the gun. The difference was, I didn't have to break myself down, I was already broken. All I had to do was build myself back up, and training my body to stay away from those memories was step one.

Every time I closed my eyes, his lifeless ones stared back at me. They were etched into my eyelids, and the burning sensation in my lungs shook the image away like my lids were nothing but an Etch a Sketch pad. It was a defective one though, because the same image kept coming back.

"Risha, baby?" Momma knocked twice on the door. I brought myself back up with a gasp and wiped the water out of my face.

"Yes momma?" I answered, my teeth chattering like dice being shaken in the hands of a gambler. The goosebumps that pebbled my skin told me that I overstayed my welcome in the water.

I unplugged the drain and grabbed my towel.

"I cooked breakfast. You should eat it while it's hot," she suggested softly.

I hmed in response, but had no intentions of eating. After getting dressed, I slipped on my house slippers and made my way downstairs. Since the curtains were drawn back, I could see momma outside cleaning. She was doing it absentmindedly too, sweeping the dirt while mumbling to herself. Cleaning was her way of coping with things.

"You're out."

I swiveled on my heels at the sound of Trey's voice. He was on the couch with Michael, watching him play Pokémon on a Nintendo. "Where'd you get that from?" I asked Michael.