He turned. He felt his eyebrows narrowing, his knuckles curling, his ears burning
like the fire that enveloped his house when he was seven. He woke to his mother shaking him feverishly. Everything smelled like smoke and a grey haze floated through the room. He barely had time to regain consciousness when he was dragged to his feet and he was running, running down the hallway, his mother clutching his hand tightly. Something was wrong, but he couldn't tell what. There were people screaming as he followed his mother and sprinted down the stairs. Then, at the bottom, he saw the front door ablaze, the fire engulfing the foyer, broken windows, broken glass. His eyes widened in shock as his father herded him down another flight of stairs and into the basement, locking the door behind them.
He watched as his father feverishly seized the phone and dialed for the police when suddenly, he heard a deafening crash of splintering wood overhead. The attackers had kicked the door in; countless feet began pounding throughout the house, and countless mouths were shouting undecipherable things. There was no time. He followed his parents as they dashed out of the basement into the detached garage. Less than a minute later, they were huddled in their pajamas, reeking of smoke, in the car and driving away for their life.
The next morning, he returned to the house he had called home. There was a gigantic, black, charred hole where the front door had been, covered with plywood. Racial epithets graffitied onto the walls. Almost all the windows smashed in. Firebombing, he learned. He had never even heard of firebombing before this. Skinheads, he also learned. He had never even recognized a skinhead before this.
Smoke damage. He lived in a relative's basement for three months, and wasn't even allowed to keep the teddy bear that he slept with.
Eleven years old now, and he was playing basketball in the outdoor courts of his elementary school. "Woo three points!"
Suddenly, a teenage boy streaked across the court, and he heard screaming. He turned, along with his friends, to face the source of the noise. There were twenty teenagers stampeding towards them. He instantly dropped the basketball and ran.
Standing a distance away, he and his friends watched as the gang caught up with the boy and began hacking at him mercilessly with machetes, screaming racial epithets all the while. It was two full minutes before the gang fled.
He was struck dumbfounded and motionless. He watched as the teenage boy stumbled to his feet, blood pouring endlessly out of his mouth. They had cut out his tongue.
Thirteen now, and he was the only one of his race at his school. It never started right. Lunchtime only nourished him with insults, shoves, and punches. It wasn't long at all before he knew it was time for a change. He fought back. Shoved back, punched back; shed blood, lived part-time in the principal's office, broke someone's ankle. But he won respect. People began looking up to him, he had loyal friends that stood by him when the punches flew. He thought he had grown into a man.
But seventeen now, and he felt his eyebrows narrowing, his knuckles curling, his ears burning. But now he knew better. He was better. He turned and walked away, a real man.
this is beautiful
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