Separate But Not Equal

Chapter X

Twice.

Third time and...

Wow.

I blink repeatedly barely managing to even catch the rapid movement and where it came from.

A strong, straight punch is aimed right into the middle of Charles' face, catching him completely off guard.

Followed by a hook, and worse, more and more punches crash upon Charles' face, as they both grab each other wrestling in the middle of the street.

Christopher only manages to dodge another hit facing me and yelling, worriedly,
"Ivory, GO."

With that demand, the instinct to restrain and prevent Christopher from causing problems and carrying on his second fight, in the space of less than two weeks, disappears.

My conscience warning me, no, ordering me to obey his instructions and make myself scarce.

So, questioning everyday and decision of my life, I hastily and silently step further away from the scene, once again a piece of my self worth and confidence being pushed beyond the edge.

*************

Emptiness.

That's it.

All I can see is emptiness.

The lights in this damned house never seem to work, and now is just another example of them failing to be somewhat useful.

I squint my eyes and shout for any sign of my Dad, with no answer.

Three.

Five.

No.

Twenty minutes later, Ten minutes of desperately searching the house and calling my dad's name, and another ten flipping over tables and chairs looking for a note explaining his sudden absence.

In what feels like the span of seconds the clock decides to mess with my brain and with time in general, spinning to exactly 8 o'clock when I next look at it.

The sun is blending farther into the horizon. Beautiful blue, purple and golden flashing through closed windows.

A trail of muddy footsteps extends outwards, loud, rhythmic music hammering in my ears, ringing the words repeatedly.

"Birmingham, Birmingham, The greatest city in Alabam'"

Ha. Absolute bullshit.

Sweat drips onto my sleeve, as the fact that I, a small, African-American teenage girl, am in a house by myself in the middle of Birmingham

I rush out of the house feeling increasingly worried and anxious.

I never figure out the amount of time I carry on walking forwards, too worried to concentrate on the fact that hours are passing by me.

Wandering around a location that had never been apparent, previously. Uncertainty making its way too my brain, as I realise that I have lost myself in a different neighbourhood and that If I'm ever lucky enough to find Papa, it definitely won't be here.

Tall, enormous men give me suspicious glances. Hidden weapons, knives, guns and more bulging out of their pockets.

Groups of teenagers sneer at me, jumping in my direction, most likely trying to scare me away.

A large amount of them throw heavy, metal objects at me. A few aiming brown glasses of beer at my head, which grows increasingly harder to avoid every second.

Every time I see a youthful, black child being hit or chased by adults or older white men and women, I change my route, reminders of my childhood causing me to cringe, uncomfortably.

I start walking backwards, constantly checking my surroundings, biting on my nails, and messing with my hair.

Why?

A nervous habit.

I hear a click behind me and slowly spin around, praying under my breath, and squeezing my eyes in anticipation, only to be met with the unpleasant barrel end of a gun.

A gun.

Held in the rough hands of an awaiting cop.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, just walking around this area, but you will have to come with me."

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