Beyond the Bayou excerpt

1

The angry sounds of gunfire resonated distant but distinctive in my ear. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! I was half awake when I heard the sounds. Or maybe I was dreaming. But my mind held a vivid picture of a gunman. He was standing near his target—arm extended, wrist upward, and face twisted in a triumphant look, proud of the devastation that he had caused. I silently begged, “Please let this be a dream.”

With my head buried beneath the covers and my eyes closed tight, I prayed I was only dreaming. My body trembled underneath the bed sheets, heart beating uncontrollably, afraid to move an inch as my son’s face flashed across my mind. I could no longer pretend. I was definitely awake and this was really happening.

“Everything is alright, I said repeatedly, at least fifteen times. “Everything is alright. Everything is alright…” But I knew that if I had to try and convince myself of this, things were probably not alright. I said a quick prayer. Lord, be a fence around this house. Protect everything and everyone around me.  I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to ward off the fear that was embedded in me as deep as my DNA and slowly opened my eyes. 

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!  I grabbed the pillow that was balled up next to me and clutched it tight. The second round of gunshots let me know that someone meant business.

I brought the pillow down tight over my head, trying to drown out the evil sounds of death. I could feel my sweat competing with the coolness of the satin pillow. My body was stiff with fear. Despite my mind telling me to take cover on the floor, I couldn’t bring myself to move. Front doors began opening and I could hear people talking. I think even crying. Next came sirens—police sirens, ambulance sirens—it wasn’t until then that I got my confirmation. When the ruckus got even louder, I had to face the fact that this was happening in my neighborhood, on my block. Right in front of my door.

As the red and blue police lights froze on my side of the duplex, I crept out of bed and slouched towards my window doing duck walks like the ones my son’s basketball team got as punishment after a lazy day of practice.

I thought about my son, Kolbi, and how he begged to sleep in my bed tonight. Thankfully, this time I didn’t give in. His bedroom was towards the back of the house, the farthest room away from the chaos that was brewing outside of my front door.

I looked out of the window to see nothing but bushes and a short iron fence that separated my home from the neighbors. I spotted a gold and white cat that looked scared to death, like it was trying to hide. Other than that, I couldn’t see a thing from this angle, but I heard a lot. Most of the sounds were all blended into different voices ranging from high-pitched and squeaky to deep and distinguished. I concentrated harder and was able to hone in on a familiar baritone that was able to break away from all of the other mumbo jumbo. He was talking to someone that must have been of authority because he put on his professional voice, using words like, “Ma’am and Sir,” Words which I had never heard around here before.

The heaviness of his voice overrode everyone else’s. I think he was talking to a female who sounded like she was still in her teens. She was adamant about getting her story in. He raised his voice a full octave higher, saying, “Just hold on. You gon’ get your turn. Hold on.” It was then that I recognized that the voice belonged to Mr. Gary.

Mr. Gary did odd jobs for everyone around the neighborhood. It didn’t matter if the job had taken him all day or only twenty minutes, or if he was changing a tire or patching up a hole in the wall, his standard fee was five dollars. And now here he was—in the middle of all this confusion—trying to have his five minutes of fame.

Things were happening fast. I couldn’t have been awake for longer than five or ten minutes, but I was now certain that someone was dead. In real life. Not in my dream. My brain began sending my body mixed signals as I went from sweating to shivering. And then my thoughts jolted back to Kolbi and rationality took over. I needed to check on my son.

I shook my head emphatically as thoughts of possible victims came to mind, hoping that it wasn’t one of my neighbors. My heart sped up as I absorbed the realness of it all. Tragedy so close to home was difficult for me to stomach. Only a couple of months into a new year and one of my neighbors would now be referred to as homicide victim number 31.