Short Stories

For some, identity is chosen, for other it is imposed

//practice piece for school//

The cold night air mingled with the toxic cigarette smoke, filling my lungs; warm, grey exhales followed by a sigh. I sat alone, watching the dark sky, the bright moon playing hide and seek behind the clouds. The damp park bench seemed unwelcoming, the music from the local broke the silence. I hummed along to the tunes I knew. The brown paper bag beside me rattled in the air, enticing me. The trees in front of me were already swaying, and I was sure it wasn't the night breeze causing their sturdy roots to dance. I took a swig of the bottle hidden in the paper bag. Surely unnoticed. I trudged towards the town hall, music getting louder. My steps fell into sync with the baseline, and a smirk slid onto my dark face.

The security had all eyes on me. Their eyes scanned from head to toe, from toe to head, and back again. I thought my wavering self was just as intimidating. I scanned them up and down, scowling. They laughed and pointed towards a sign. My blurred vision wasn't sure what it said but I'm sure this is when I should've stepped back.

I giggled a little and pushed open the hall's double doors. They creaked and I stepped forward. Disgusted looks and smirks were quick to be thrown my way. If it weren't for the alcohol coursing though my veins, I may have stepped back.

I began to dance along beside a girl I couldn't take my eyes off. She giggled when I locked eyes with her. And maybe that was because she saw the security behind me. The security that grabbed me by the collar and pulled me towards the double doors I had made such an entrance in. I struggled a little bit, and a little bit more. And when my black fist actually made contact with a white buff shoulder, with a soft thud, I should've stepped back. And as their fist came back to me, square in the face, I did step back. I stepped back and fell down the small set of steps that lead to the hall's doors. A thud, much louder than the one I had created, sounded through the still night's air when my back found a place on the dirt. Luckily, my prized paper bag landed upright beside me.

The luck of some people, I thought.

The profanities being yelled at me by the security, once again poignantly placed beside the entrance, reminded me that Friday nights were better spent in doors. And that's where I was headed.

I wasn't sure what time it was, but as I looked the the crescent moon in the sky, I assumed it was, well, late enough. My feet travelled along the gravel, and my fingers fought with the packet to pull out another fag. A quick flicker of the flame ignited the end, and I didn't waste a moment before inhaling. I was sure I had forgotten the taste of oxygen. I remember my mother always condemning the locals, the ones with nicotine stains between their fingers, and singes on their shirts. When we moved neighbourhoods, she said that was one thing she was glad to get away from. She was distraught when I began to sport such trend. I guess that's when she realised this neighbourhood wasn't for me.

I fiddled delicately with the back gate, quietly twisting the handle and entering the place I had become so familiar with. I stepped forward and dodged the security camera, I was sure. I dove for the cash register in record time. My eyes widened as I scanned each section, pulling open surrounding drawers and containers. Coming across nothing. I laughed, my cigarette hanging out the side of my mouth, the filter stuck on my lips. I walked back to the door, halting suddenly. I pressed the security system and the blare of the alarm sounded in seconds. I sat down, and finished what was left in my brown paper bag. I waited silently. My cigarette's ashes fluttered delicately onto my white shirt, and I watched as the hot pieces burned through, revealing my dark skin beneath. Relaxed and ready, I waited.

The strong grip of the white police officer pulled my drowsy self from my slumped, sleeping position on the floor. I was asked to face the wall, their hands aggressively touching suspect areas. They confiscated my smokes. Surely for their own use, I thought. I was shoved into the back of the cop car and before my wobbling self could take a step back, the door was slammed shut. The peaceful back seat seemed welcoming. The car was pretty warm too, I thought. The sirens blared and we made a journey back to the place I really found comfort. My favourite song started to play on the cop's radio.

Oh, the luck of some people.

*October2016