Comments were left. . .
. . .out the door.
Random thoughts consumed the mind. Thrones were being thrown to the ground. Bad decisions continued being made.
But the reality of this mini-story was:
I loved him anyway.
The bus ride lasted a couple of hours to the point sitting made me want to stand up for days. I didn't have any vivid dreams or nightmares, in fact, nothing clouded into the sleep. Every single time my eyes re-opened, I was at a new location of uncertainty. My lungs would intake air with panic washing over my face in surprise. But as soon as the same old bus rocked and engine gurgled, it came back to riding on the bus with a collection of more people. A little boy around the age of three, peeked over the seat, staring at us with astonishment. He's probably never seen people so beat up before. At least he still had some curiosity. I gradually cracked the smallest smile even when it burned to move. The boy reciprocated the same blank gaze. His grandmother told him to take a seat correctly like a big boy.
I wanted to tell the kid to not grow too big because the people in this world are cruel. But knowing his age, his little mind wouldn't understand until it hit him. I realized I felt somewhat lighter and tuned to Beau, his head no longer rested on my shoulder. Instead, he lifted off that weight and propped his arm up on the armrest, transferring his head on the hand. With all the distressed commotion and chaos creased into his frame and face, his sleepy face smoothed out all the distress. That's the power of sleep I guess.
The bus driver drove further into the suburban lifestyle that I've missed, drifting away from the countryside. Typical shops and eateries lightened their trademark with neon lights. Not many vehicles were out during this hour and several traffic lights came to view between glowing green, yellow, and red.
I nudged Beau softly with my shoulder to wake him up because I had no idea where we were. This was nowhere close to home.
He hadn't been sleeping after all because he sat up casually with a hint of a small smirk hanging on the corner of his lip.
"When do we get to our stop?" I asked, murmuring.
"In a couple of minutes, we'll be there."
Anxiety tied knots in my stomach because a couple of minutes sounded like hundreds when we were hours away from my destination. Urgency kicked in and I wondered how long people were going to notice I was missing. If they even cared. It was hard to see what I looked like without a mirror, just the visual of a couple of things and the boy's stare already determined my grotesque. Not much was with me but comfortable shorts that torn in the corners dipped in red bloody splotches. The sweatshirt Beau gave me was now ripped, giving off a gas exhaust and fire smell. My feet were bare, losing my shoes along the route. I could easily see how my big toe split my nail down the shaft without shoes. My heels the darkest black I could barely see my normal skin color.
We came to another stopping point throughout our transportation; Beau rose up to get off of the bus. I trailed behind. No one looked at us with wandering eyes—not that I noticed—because we kept our head low.
We walked for a minute down an alleyway and the red-brick buildings parallel to one another never converged. Green garbage bins were knocked over by rascals and trash-consuming animals. A skinny cat pace past us, unbothered by anyone.
This wasn't home.
I wanted to tell him that but the drowsiness took over my body with a bang and I wasn't fully aware of our surroundings just yet to pop off. With suspicion, Beau peered through the side window and proceed towards the front door. It was the color of coffee. We climbed up two steps from the outdoor stairs. Apparently, the door was unlocked because he just grabbed the doorknob. He paused. I stopped in my tracks behind him. His hand still planted near the entrance, stared at the door like it would open sesame for him. I prepared for what would happen next once Beau turned his head, barely looking over his shoulder. I could only see the outline of his face from his nose to the chin and one cheek. My eyelids fluttered shut, cutting out the rest of the world.
"Beau, I think—"
"The place isn't top notch."
I waited my turn by saying nothing else. I waited. I should've just said what I needed to say loud and clear instead of hold in my feelings. We spoke at the same time and the only words heard were his.
Beau actually collected a lot of abandoned items from the vehicle with a backpack on his shoulders, some money, a baseball cap, and different clothes similar to his attire already. He tried to offer me a couple, folded neatly like disguises. The baseball cap tucked low to hide the pupils.
I said no because I wasn't going to wear a dead person's clothing.
Beau pushed the door open as it groaned a low creaking sound. My bare feet carefully climbed each step and observed the apartment. He couldn't glance in my direction as he stood by the door letting me in. I knew what he meant about the home. It was nothing fancy like the Dales house.
A typical long couch and two comfy chairs faced each other. A long brown table steadied itself over the rug. The kitchen adjoined with the living room and the counters made of white marble were embedded with navy-blue cracks as detail so polished as plain adornments. Essentials were provided in a typical selling living stay but bought: a refrigerator; stove; microwave; and a flat screen. Personal accessories that topped the icing on the cake were a glass ashtray compiled of burnt cigarette butts and half empty liquor bottles.
Beau led the way to the staircase closest to the wall with wooden creaks following his steps. Mine too. Several rooms drew a mysterious illusion when the area could have nothing at all. Beau pushed open a cream-colored door barely shut. The room absorbed the dim light from the hallway. With the flicker of the light switch, everything fell into place with the idea I had not imagined.
I expected his personality to glitter and glow on the bedroom walls or at least see a messy bed with a floor that can barely be seen.
It was. . .neat actually.
The ruffled bed just appeared unorderly as if a sleepy body has engulfed in sleek sheets leaving dents. The four walls were spotless and glossed with a paint shade of coconut milk.
"And this is my room," He scratched the back of his head then closed the door behind me.
I didn't plan on being alone with Beau at this point in time and really had the urge to bust through the door to run. The frustration began to pile up with all the turns in events without my knowledge. I wanted to tug strands out of my hair with no one still knowing where I was located and not being home by now. I had all contacts saved on my phone that I left, never having to remember the final digits, that even being no use. Did anyone care? Was I just a figure that filled up space in their memories or eye-passing? I apparently was, since I arrived here, so what has changed for me in one season?
This made me mad. Mad enough fire ignited in my red-hot veins and bones only knowing it was okay for people to be careless and lie. It made me sick to my stomach that even bile not there boiled up in my throat.
"I'm not ignoring this any longer," I said with an undertone of bass and demand.
"What? What are you talking about?"
"This!" I cried out, my palms displayed out to him trying to shake off the fear and anger contained in my body.
"I'm supposed to be where I belong so I can forget this madness, but I'm here, losing my damn mind!"
Beau pushed himself up but held the doorknob to stabilize his posture with weak muscles. Beau swallowed as his unnoticeable Adam's Apple bobbed, and with a low-level soothing murmured, "I will take you home Ebonee, just not right now okay, just—"
My arms lunged at his chest, beating all the hurt built up in me with closed swollen fists. My jaw shut so tight, I wanted to pound this emotion from me into him so he knows what it feels like. Beau barely budged while he let me throw some punches in a couple times. His pupils bored into mine with a heavy heart and affliction as the pain traveled over to him.
"Ebonee—stop. Just—Ebonee, just listen to me."
He eventually found his way to grabbing my wrist. Beau ducked his head past one of my fists trying to fly across his cheek. I squirmed under his tight grasp, jerking my body backward and forth until he would let go. Once I began slipping, Beau re-adjusted his hand position to a more secure grip on my forearm. We scuffled and with our breathing heavy, weighed us down.
He locked me down by the arms and jerked me towards him like a rag doll. Beau closed in our proximity with my clenched hands kept our bodies from any contact. Air slammed into the back of my throat following with a gasp. Beau released the sigh buried in his chest while his shoulders somewhat drooped.
"Ebonee just listen to me one more time and I know you don't want to. Just. . .Listen."
"I will take you home, just not right now. And I know promised, but the boys will be here and they barely know what happened because I was supposed to be back after I was done. They don't know you're with me."
Shaking my head, I closed my eyes so tears could halt on the streams and rivers. So I know that I was going home as soon as possible, not when that length of time extended on his terms.
When Beau sensed I was being too stubborn, he was brave enough to loosen the death grip he had on me. I backed away from him, swaying on my toes from the whirling unconscious. I bent over to clutch my knees, exhausted.
I felt so drained. Life was pouring out of me and the flow of making sense of slick and tricky tongues has never made me feel so weary. My breathing finally slowed down and I sat up.
To stifle a bitter laugh.
"I really thought you were going to kill me there. Just like you did to those other human beings."
Beau averted his gaze away from me, "That's not funny Ebonee."
"But that's okay with you, right? For you, it's all a game, right?!"
"I don't think it's okay, but. . .—"
"Tell me! Please, Beau. Tell me you think it's okay to stab, shoot, and crack someone's spine. That's it's okay to rip their head off!"
Beau motioned towards me, heated in the moment with a flame sweltering in his irises, "I could explain it to you in twenty different languages but you still wouldn't get it!" My mouth locked down after that like I was just punched in the gut. His comment was a slap in the face and I've never felt this way about words like that before even though I've been through a lot with mother.
"They are no longer human beings anymore. People have empathy, are more vibrant, and self-control. Those poor children that tried to kill you today were created to feel nothing. Nothing at all."
"You want me to tell you why?!" Beau started counting off his fingers, "They don't give a shit if you're hopeless, they don't give a fuck about your happiness and certainly don't give a fuck if you're dying. They are killing machines for a reason."
I watched Beau explode into a different anger that blew up in my face , similar to the agitation I had, but I feared him more. "They have no faith. Most of us follow atheism because that "God" has lost us between the stupid stars we were supposed to believe in and a book. Where was He when we were resigned to be killers? Why would he allow poor innocent kids murder ordinary or future influential people? If we are all one, why would he allow us to kill our own kind?"
I lowered my glare as it softened, drinking up his questions in silence. I didn't know he felt this way and my eyes watered, glossing over with the blues. I told him he shouldn't question Him for all He has done.
Beau glanced elsewhere with a simple shrug, "I don't care. I lived all my life not being told anything but having one simple job. Not knowing. Just told what has to be done and not speak. What makes me want to shut up now?"
He sighed in his hands as they rubbed over his face in agony and internal torment. Beau relaxed down on the edge of the bed and watched his tone.
"They just. . .grab little kids. Just take them. The unfortunates, the outcasts, the refugees, the ones that could've been something but life failed them. I've seen it once, and they usually hit countries that are either hard to pronounce or infamous. We came from all walks of life, sometimes no English but what we know. And their mission is to try and make a better life for us by putting a gun in our hands. But at such a young age, you're driven to put bullets in stranger's heads not knowing their life. No information about them but one thing, and one thing only. Your life is affected now. He examined his filthy palms that were covered in corruption and abomination.
"They put a gun in your hand and hell yeah, you'll be curious. You'll get excited. Questions will run through your mind, wanting to know how it works, what it does, what it can do to people's lives. Yes, they go around selecting poor individuals or families and you see it all. What you look at can't be unseen. Greedy people from poor places die for money and wealth because they need it most. That's exactly what they'll do to those people. Make them die for money."
Beau looked up at me, massaging the guilt out of the lines stitched in his palms. My eyes just stared at the bed instead. I didn't know who "they" were when all kinds of people were after Beau. Was it Simone's boyfriend, Malik who happened to be on the opposing side the whole time? What about the people that beat him up at the church?
I don't know. IdontknowIdontknowIdontknow. . .
I observed all his movements as he rose up and carried two heavy feet to stand in front of me.
"You learn to expect things you'll never get and want but when the money is under your nose, it becomes so tempting. Like heroine, the temptation will never leave you even though you think you're in that safe haven. Your head starts spinning, eventually losing it. A little is better than nothing." He inched one space towards me, hoping to get my attention. "That's what they're thinking out there Ebonee. They're after me because I was the jackpot."
I didn't answer him as the tears kind of stung from holding them in as the sensitivity trembled over me. I wish I could wash it away because I didn't feel as strong as I was five minutes ago.
His hushed voice lightly soothed and became mellow, more than I thought it could. "You know what we call civilians like yourself?" He eased his way towards me until I could hear the tempo of his heartbeat making smooth pattern sound—thump. Thump. Thump.
"An easy target.
Why? Because they are naive and oblivious to what goes on in the world. But you're not any of those things Ebonee, I know that." You didn't believe in God, but one thing I do know is you believed in me.
His calloused fingers traced down my shoulder and I drew back, not wanting any physical contact with him. Beau kept trying and trying, reaching for me as I moved away from his grasp more confused and flustered, to begin with. Although Beau was toying with my mind, I wondered if part of him knew he was losing me as I slowly slipped away from his captivating touch.
Before I slipped away from Beau, he, in reality, tried catching me as my elbows wriggled away from his locked grip again.
I began to fall.
Down. . .
Down. . .
Down.
The back of my head banged into the leg of the mattress, curling my body into a fetal position. It didn't help that my hearing was slowly healing, coming back from the constant ringing. Beau kept uttering inarticulate words but all I could focus on was where the pain started. He decided to leave the room suddenly, as he paced down the stairs. I figured it was time to get up, pulling on the sheets and leaning my weight on the bed.
My knees wobbled and I could feel my ankles throbbing from standing too long. Heading into his bathroom, my back shut the door as I pressed against it, sliding down. I thought a couple of tears were going to shed and the negative thoughts would swallow the thinking process. But Beau stopped that by knocking on the door.
I didn't move and just squeezed the stress between my eyebrows with two fingers. He knocked again, more softly this time.
I attempted to turn the brass doorknob a fraction just to open the door by a crack. I could make out one of his eyes from the bathroom light, glistening and all. Beau's head rested by the door and juggled something in his hand for a brief moment.
"Here,"
I opened the door wider to see a pack of cold ice in his hand. Carefully taking it from him, I tried not to actually touch him or else I would catch feelings. The ice pack remained cool in my heated hand, even making my fingernails numb. As I held it by my side, I was either waiting for Beau to leave or he was waiting for me to close the door. But, neither one of us made the attempt to make the first move. We stood there, staring at each other like miracles work on their own.
I can say it in twenty different languages and you still wouldn't get it!
Now there is a phrase that sticks with me and isn't devoured in lies. I just can't stop making bad decisions when it comes to you. I wasn't sure. . .why. . .but, do you stop loving someone once they've betrayed you? I still think that's what makes the betrayal hurt so much—the pain, the letdown, and the delirium. I'm always running back to them, loving them. I really do. That's why it makes the white in my eyes not the shade of red, but the color of a delicate rose with bleeding petals. Love has never been so complicated before in romantic movies and novels. They should try answering the general and appropriate questions so women wouldn't have to look for these unrealistic guys in literacy and film like do we fall in love with the wrong people at the right time? Or the right people at the wrong time?
An obscure question on its own, there was no time for inquiry when the doorbell chimed and deadly bangs from the door scared the both of us.
Beau's expression masked the sentiment as it altered into hardness and stone-cold. He warned me to not come downstairs. His eyes and words never kid nor kidding. I closed the bathroom door, getting into a good position and pressed my ear on it. Wrestling noises came from the bedroom and thumping down the staircase.
I peeked to make sure the coast was clear, no Beau and walked quietly around.
One of the drawers that weren't open before stuck out. Pulling it open further, small booklets in different dull colors shuffled on top of others. Rowdy guys entered the building, shouting words in their native language. I flicked my eyes at the door. Since there was no noise near the top floor, I continued my snooping. I glanced back at the booklets, pushing them around. "Passport" in different languages and areas on the cover revealed the same amount of books in a series on a shelf. Airline tickets were used as bookmarks and I flipped through one, catching the difference in the biography, cities from around the world.
Even the picture.
I didn't know what it all meant and didn't want to, as I closed the drawer behind me. The commotion now reached a crescendo peak as the flat screen burst its colors of a live game of non-American football. I stepped foot into the hallway to look down at the raucous boys were making. A couple more came in past the door, glancing around the sector. They spread around the perimeter like vultures, eye-boggling and analyzing every part of Beau's apartment for a shift in furniture or shuffled disordered things. Beau checked the stairs when their eyes weren't on him, maintaining an unsuspicious face that's hard to keep if a civilian is upstairs and could be found by the vast majority of killers, entering his home. I then, knew, if I were caught, the chances of being alive were very very slim.
I remembered jumping behind a cornered wall that could block me from being seen, crouching low enough to rest my pained legs and still watch the scenery.
One of the young boys around our age spoke quickly to Beau in his innate language with slurs the tongue can only twist without much strain. He could've been mistaken for Latin or Russian. Handsome even, but his looks could go a long way with the intimidation that surfaced to his appearance. He didn't even shake Beau's hand or greet him, but shoved past with his shoulder, looking right through him. Beau's jaw just tightened at the sight of the guy with anger. The strands of hair on his head were thick and dark as wine. His skin so translucent and pale, it could shatter the sun. The venom that pawned over his poisonous and soft features illustrated a scar that healed long enough, grazed from his ear to his bottom lip. Another one sprouted a deep pink on the inside of his arm like a tree root or vein rupture with a stitched train track pattern.
Beau pushed the door closed with his back when the last one entered. He tried to hide it, but the wounds were bothering him as he rested his now shirtless body a little longer on the entrance. One of the boys called out his name and he fixed his posture, entering the devil's den.
For an hour, everyone was busy indulged into their own activities on the first floor. Two guys shouted what seemed profanity in English at the television screen as the game continued. My mouth dropped open and I jerked forward, amazed a small boy carried a black gun around by his side. The sight frightening and almost shocking. He grabbed some of the parts of a firearm, shiny bullets lined up for him and a washcloth. He broke it apart like it was puzzle piece he's been fixing at five. Another little boy by the television and loud older teenagers, barely passing the age of twelve, had a cigarette in his mouth. Only, this was the real kind with the ashtray out in front of him, not a relative-pseudo toy. Sag and multiple hills of skin rippled under his eyes, evident proof he already hit adulthood.
Whiskey filled the small glasses cluttered on a green table where more boys played cards with greenbacks and bands. The lamplight shadowed symbols of cards in their hands as Cuban cigar fumes contaminated the apartment, evaporating out the window. The smoke even clouded the intense game so much, the panel of guys seemed more threatening and toxic.
As Beau sat alone in the cushioned chair, I knew—
Something was wrong.