Trying To Endure

Chapter Nine

SONG: Logic & Rag'n'Bone Man - Broken People

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April Levesque

I traipse through a tranquil park, pausing at the prospect of a group of huddling boys. Roadmen. Or not roadmen. I'm unsure.

Appearing in their early twenties, hoods up, teeth yellow and gnarly, reeks of weed. Some on bikes, some blasting drill music from speakers and phones.

I scan the environs. Not enough souls nearby, not enough present. Sky veined of ablaze colours, a brush of darkness dangerously arises. The missing cases . . . I self-consciously cross my arms, pricked of jostled baby hairs. I can't manoeuvre the group, can't take an opposite route — the park is the shortest short-cut home. 

I can swing a good punch, thanks to Dad. Strike the nose, he told me, then the temple. The missing cases ... Don't be stupid, April. Don't think like that. It's a semi-bright day. People are around. I densely puff a breath, beginning a rapid stroll. It is saddening these thoughts and habits are becoming more common nowadays. You know what they say: it is better to be safe than sorry.

A catcall.

The hairs on the back of my neck sizzle in predictable surprise.

"Hello," one coo, a few members resounding.

Heart clobbering, the blood pulsating my eardrums, my alarmed chest rigid.

"She's peng," one mumbles, several others obnoxiously agreeing.

I carry on, acting like it was a reverie, my speed heightening in the midst of each disgust.

"Hey!" a man shouts. "This girl deaf or what?"

"Hey, little girl!"

"How you doin'?"

Can they shut up?

"Lemme bust yo snap!"

"Hey, we're talking to you!"

I snap impulsively, "Fuck off." Oh, God. That came out of nowhere.

The commenter scowls, earning sniggers from his mates. "A'ight, bitch. Chill. What, you got a man to be this rude?"

I quicken my speed. Sometimes, I wish I were a man. That way, I can walk wherever I want to, however I want to, at whatever time I want to.

"Nice arse!"

Can these boys get the hint and back away? From the way they speak to the way they act, they're like horny little high schoolers. It's blood-curling.

"Innit," another agrees. "How much to smack it? Got ten quid on me, babe!"

"Get a life," I retort.

"Ohhh, so you're feisty, eh? Good, good."

The others guffaw. I scowl, repulsed, intensifying my speed. I hear shuffling and peer sideways. One, two, three, four — Lost count. Is that the whole group? Shit. Jasmine would cuss at them. I would if fear isn't gurgling my throat.

"Oi!"

"Turn around!"

"Nah, don't."

"Won't see her arse."

"C'mon, stop walking!

"I promise we won't bite!"

"She might," one snicker.