PART TWO
Just as he swings the door open, the bell atop the door ringing from the movement, the boy turns for assurance from he who created him, only to see a hunched back departing just as it had come, detached and alone.
The couple approached the boy with soft, slow steps. The woman bends down, but the boy did not acknowledge the woman standing in front of him, his eyes fixed on the door. She balanced on the balls of her feet, “Hello Brooks” her brows crunch downwards as she speaks, “my name…”, before she can finish or anticipate his move the boy falters from his statue state and bolts for the door. The force he exerted when pushing the door sent the bell crashing back against it. After a few steps upon the dirt and pebble parking lot Brooks halts, his head jerking back and forth, longing to see that tattered flannel or thinning brown hair. Or that old Impala his father loved so much pulling over closer to the door for him to hop in. But the dirt clouding around him made it nearly impossible for him to place any object, near or far. His face and eyes are scrunched now, little particles of dirt attempting to lodge inside the cracks, and his mouth is parted open, upper lip by his gums.
The dust finally settled allots him his vision again. And with this recent return of sight he spots the butt of his father’s car. Through the dirt ridden rear window he makes out two silhouettes in front of the car. To the left is definitely his father, but the right one is harder because of a crack causing a large amount of dirt build-up. The closer he got to the car the more he could detect voices screaming. 15 feet away and he began to discern segments of words being exchanged. “you son of a bitch… I…motherfu…can’t believe you…” all came through from a female voice. The boy waited, wanting to hear what his father would say in response, but heard no words. All he heard was a muffled pounding of the car long painful shrieks that put him in a statue state again. He stood frozen as the passenger door clicked open and the female body was shoved out to the ground covered in blood. “MOM!” the young boy screamed in automatic response to the scene of his mother lying but 15 feet in front of him, a slit through her neck that still bled profusely. His feet could still not move. He stood there crying at the top of his lungs, watching the dust cloud behind his ‘‘father’s’’ impala as he drove off into the horizon.
Earth. The planet contains nearly seven billion people, each an individual; unique, different. Some average, some assholes, some special. What is it that makes these differences possible and determines diversity? Collections of memories, experiences, and thoughts that carve out who we are as people? Or is it already predetermined who we shall be, a destiny of sorts? Does time shape people; who will be broken, who will be saved, each moment determining how people will act and where they will go? If so how does anyone become commendable, honorable or good?
The couple approached the boy with soft, slow steps. The woman bends down, but the boy did not acknowledge the woman standing in front of him, his eyes fixed on the door. She balanced on the balls of her feet, “Hello Brooks” her brows crunch downwards as she speaks, “my name…”, before she can finish or anticipate his move the boy falters from his statue state and bolts for the door. The force he exerted when pushing the door sent the bell crashing back against it. After a few steps upon the dirt and pebble parking lot Brooks halts, his head jerking back and forth, longing to see that tattered flannel or thinning brown hair. Or that old Impala his father loved so much pulling over closer to the door for him to hop in. But the dirt clouding around him made it nearly impossible for him to place any object, near or far. His face and eyes are scrunched now, little particles of dirt attempting to lodge inside the cracks, and his mouth is parted open, upper lip by his gums.
The dust finally settled allots him his vision again. And with this recent return of sight he spots the butt of his father’s car. Through the dirt ridden rear window he makes out two silhouettes in front of the car. To the left is definitely his father, but the right one is harder because of a crack causing a large amount of dirt build-up. The closer he got to the car the more he could detect voices screaming. 15 feet away and he began to discern segments of words being exchanged. “you son of a bitch… I…motherfu…can’t believe you…” all came through from a female voice. The boy waited, wanting to hear what his father would say in response, but heard no words. All he heard was a muffled pounding of the car long painful shrieks that put him in a statue state again. He stood frozen as the passenger door clicked open and the female body was shoved out to the ground covered in blood. “MOM!” the young boy screamed in automatic response to the scene of his mother lying but 15 feet in front of him, a slit through her neck that still bled profusely. His feet could still not move. He stood there crying at the top of his lungs, watching the dust cloud behind his ‘‘father’s’’ impala as he drove off into the horizon.
Earth. The planet contains nearly seven billion people, each an individual; unique, different. Some average, some assholes, some special. What is it that makes these differences possible and determines diversity? Collections of memories, experiences, and thoughts that carve out who we are as people? Or is it already predetermined who we shall be, a destiny of sorts? Does time shape people; who will be broken, who will be saved, each moment determining how people will act and where they will go? If so how does anyone become commendable, honorable or good?