A Crossroads of Sorts

by Raymond Towers © 2003

I stood there, in the shower, staring up at the chrome showerhead and feeling the sharp needles of the jet spray stinging into my neck and chest, all the while contemplating the dark subject of death. Thoughts of impending demise brought such typical reactions to most; cringing fear, uncontrollable shudders, a dire longing for things left undone, things left unsaid, and worst of all, an overwhelming desire to cling to whatever last vestiges of life still remained, even as the familiar pitter-pat of the heart reduced itself to a fading pat… pat… pat. But things like this no longer bothered me. I guess I was over that now.

Of course, it hadn't always been this way. I'd been born under the dubious occurrence of a brief lunar eclipse, and with such thick skin that the doctor eventually gave up on slapping my behind, as I would elicit no response from his swats other than to glance in his direction playfully. Thick skin, so thick I don't recall ever cutting myself on sharp objects, and I mean ever. I fell down while running with scissors once, the sharpened tips nipping on my outer thigh as I bounced on the kitchen linoleum. Most kids would have been rushed to the hospital with the objects imbedded in their leg, but not me. I merely scraped my skin, producing a sickly white scar that healed over within the next few days. I mean, it was as if the scissors couldn't puncture through, so they instead turned aside in their effort to gash me.

So, from an early age, I knew I was special. My bones are strong, too. I've been given estimates ranging between ten to twenty times denser than average. This makes me slightly slower than most people, and I compensated for my lack of speed by excelling in the martial arts; tae kwon do, kung fu, judo. I can absorb a blow from a baseball bat by merely holding up a forearm, and I deliver punches which I term 'one-hitter-quitters', which means that if I connect anywhere, my opponent is not getting back up.

I don't consider myself a superhero. I was always brooding in the back of class, trying hard not to be noticed, trying to keep my grades up, trying to make my parents proud, but the bullies would always come around. A few busted noses later, and I was labeled a trouble maker. Never made it into college.

I do have a steady job, though. I bag groceries at the local supermarket for six bucks an hour. About six months ago, I'd just gotten off, it was past ten, I think, and I was starting my stroll across the parking lot to go back home, when I heard old Mrs. Winters scream for help. Some neighborhood thugs were mugging her, and I remember her grocery bags all torn up and spilt oranges and eggs all over the place. For the first time ever, I lost control. To this day, I can't recall how I did it, I only know three Crips gang members ended up in the hospital. And Mrs. Winters, bless her soul, didn't say a word about me. When she said a rival gang had happened by and started a gang fight, the police took one look at battered and bruised hoodlums, and called the case 'closed'.

The gang-bangers would be out looking for me, I knew. I bought a used Kevlar vest from the army surplus place down the street, and started wearing it everywhere I went, under the oversized jacket I usually wore. Sure enough, I was gunned down at the park, of all places, but I got lucky. No shots hit my arms or face, and after laying on the ground for a few minutes, making sure the thugs were gone, I simply got up, brushed myself off, and walked back home. You should have seen the faces people gave me when I did that.

One by one, I stalked down the guys that did it, breaking their arms and legs like most people might snap twigs. After that, the Crips pretty much left me alone.

One thing led to another, and I started patrolling the streets after dark, sometimes with the local chapter of the Guardian Angels, sometimes by myself. We cleaned up the streets in no time at all. I'd even gotten myself a sidekick, a spunky little black girl who carried all sorts of electronic gadgets and stun guns. She called herself Zapp. I was starting to like her, and there's no telling where things might have ended up, if she were still alive.

A gang from another neighborhood, the Bloods, had been wanting to muscle in ever since the local Crips were dismantled, and their leader, Tyrone Wells, figured he could make his move as soon as they could get me out of the way. So, they set up an ambush, spraying my house up with gunfire and taking out Zapp in the process.

I was responsible for her death.

I tracked down Tyrone Wells, brushing aside his accomplices like so much refuse, and squeezed the life from him with my bare hands. He didn't die peacefully. He gagged and choked and spat his way into oblivion, before finally falling limp within my grip. First man I've ever killed.

After shutting off the shower, I grabbed the first dry towel from the rack, and stepped over before the tiny sink. Still dripping wet, I wiped away some of the fog from the mirror, staring into my own bloodshot and teary eyes.

The Bloods might come after me, but I wasn't concerned about that. I'd seen death with my own eyes that night, had in fact become death to one sorry individual. What did that make me? What did that mean for my future? Those were the questions I was still trying to figure out.

The answers, I knew, weren't going to come easy.

x x x




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