Gun shots from outside my window made me jump, spilling some of my tea.
Usually they didn’t startle me as I was so used to them, but every now and again, the deafening bangs would catch me off guard.
I used an old napkin to wipe the hot beverage off my now scalded fingers and switched off the kitchen light. I didn’t want to peek behind the curtains to see if it had been anything fatal, I didn’t have the stomach for that tonight.
Walking into the cramped living room, I sat with my knees drawn up in the tattered sofa I had bought second-hand a few years back when I’d got the place. The one-bedroom apartment had suffocating damp in the tiny bathroom and flaking white paint on the ceiling as well as on most of the window panes. I’d gotten it when I was sixteen and had been renting the place out for the past two years. Even with the poor condition it was in, it took nearly all the money I made from my part-time job to keep up with payments.
I sipped on my hot milky tea and let my mind drift away from those self-pitying thoughts and out of the room. I wondered who had fired the shots I’d heard outside. Had it been one of the Santiagos or one of the Simpsons? The family names belonged to the two rival gangs who played dominant roles in this part of the city I lived, both seeming to consist of only males. I knew that the Santiagos were Venezuelan and the Simpsons were English. I didn’t know the details of their upbringings but it was general knowledge that they were both deeply involved with crime, and had been from an early age.
I didn’t see any of them often, but when I did, I made sure it was just a brief encounter. They could stare me down and make me feel intimidated even without trying. It wouldn’t be hard; I was quite a timid character around people I didn’t know, especially males. That’s just the way it was, and I was sure it had quite a lot to do with my upbringing.
By the time my mind was back in the room, my drink had cooled down considerably, so I drank it in gulps before heading to bed. As I slipped between my sheets, I hoped that I wouldn’t have any bad dreams about my past which would always creep up on me when I was most vulnerable. I said a little prayer to a God that never seemed to hear me and let my eyes close.
***
School had ended in the early afternoon and I’d gone straight to the pub to work five hours straight. By the time I’d finished serving, my feet ached, my back was sore and all I wanted to do was have a shower and go straight to sleep.
I walked quickly through the chilly autumn night with my coat zipped up all the way to my chin and a worn tartan scarf snaked round my neck. I kept my head down as I made my way home, careful to keep under the street lights and avoid dark areas. The streets weren’t really that safe at night, especially for a girl on their own, but I had to make a living and that meant taking risks.
I lived in the west side of the area, which was Simpson territory, and I was reminded of that by the numerous works of graffiti in my vicinity that belonged to that gang. The most common was the seven headed snake, each head for each brother. The Santiagos too had their own symbol, a spike stabbed into the bleeding finger of ‘society’. Apparently it represented how much a small gang could cause pain and discomfort to those who were against them. The same way a splinter would do to one’s fingertip.
As I walked, my eyes traced the grubby slabs of concrete and I found myself trying to imagine a lifestyle completely different to the one I had. One where I could come home to a big warm house, bubbly and alive, full of family who loved and cared for me as I did in return. Perhaps I had a sister, or more than one, who I could share things with and stay up late at night talking endlessly about crushes with. Or maybe a few brothers who would play rough with me but at the same time look out for me. Would they look like I did? Be brown-eyed and blonde haired like me, or a little different? And what of my parents? The very idea of having two parents, like a lot people had, was alien to me. Would my mother hug me and kiss me when I felt down, teach me how to bake? Would my father tease me about boys and teach me how to do things like play golf or go fishing? Dreaming like this pushed out the truth about my childhood, even if it was only momentary.
I was so lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t realised I had walked straight onto a dark stretch of pavement. The lights here had stopped working, they were old pieces of junk that the council disregarded, but I hadn’t noticed in time or I would have changed route a while back. Suddenly I felt more alone than I had been previously and I could feel fear rising up my throat. The sound of my heart pounding filled my ears and I couldn’t hear anything else. I started walking faster, hoping to get out of the zone sooner, when out of nowhere I hit something solid. I stopped the scream that was about to tear out my throat just in time and I managed a frightened choking sound instead.
“Watch it!” growled an angry male voice.
I was expecting them to just move on, but the shadowy figure stood there, making my knees begin to buckle in fear. I balled my hands into fists inside my pockets, desperately trying to hold myself together. If they were going to grab me they would have done so already...hopefully they were just waiting for an apology?
“Who the hell are you?” his hand shot out and grabbed the front of my coat.
I gasped in fear, my breath hitching up in an instant and I pressed my lips together to try and stop myself from whimpering. My legs were locked and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to even run away - if I got out of his iron strong grip that was.
“I’m sorry,” I tried, my voice coming out in a dry whisper.
I didn’t know how he’d even heard it, but his grasp on me lessened slightly, only for a second before he stuffed his other hand into his pocket. I couldn’t see well but, I could hear him feeling around for something, a knife or a gun.
I wouldn’t beg him for my life. I’d learnt many times that begging did nothing for me, however it didn’t change the fact that I was terrified. How long would it be until someone found my body? What would they do with me? I had no one. I would just be another unmissed person to add to a record somewhere. Maybe the next life, if there was one, would treat me a lot better.
A blinding light hit my face out of nowhere, making me wince and squint my watering eyes. The figure murmured in what sounded like surprise, then I felt his grip release the front of my coat and he let his arm fall to his side.
“Go home,” he grunted, the anger seeming to have melted away.
I stood there dumbly in shock, realising it had been the torch on his phone that he’d shone at me. He turned it off and when I saw the light from the screen reflect off his own face I couldn’t have been more astonished.
Walter Simpson.
It had been years since I’d seen him this up close, but there was no way I could mistake his tousled dark hair under the hood he was wearing. I’d only gotten a glimpse of his hazel coloured eyes and I hadn’t been able to read them. All I knew was that he wasn’t going to hurt me, not tonight anyway.
Managing to get my knees to unlock, I made a hasty escape though the blacked out zone and all the while, I could feel his gaze boring into my back. Soon, I would dissolve into the gloom and he wouldn’t be able to see me at all.
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