It's winter, and I walked down Asheville Street, kicking the snow, heading toward the store. Tomorrow is my birthday, but it's not such a special day for me because Dad always says, "Birthdays are for kids." The only gift I'm expecting is my dad himself; he promised to come home tonight.
Something seemed off, I thought. Why was everywhere so quiet? I moved closer to the store, and from afar, I saw that the store was closed. That was unusual because the store always closes an hour before midnight. I moved down the street, now standing in front of the store. I was shocked and terrified; bodies were hung on the street lamps and gutters. The pure white snow had now turned orange. I stood still, staring at a severed hand shaking in front of a Toyota vehicle. I looked at the corner of the store and saw a group of people gathered around something. I moved closer and saw an old woman, about eighty-five years old, holding her remaining two toes on her right foot; the other three had been cut off during the crisis. I saw a boy my age standing alone at one corner of a church, sitting right beside a stabbed man, and I knew that was probably his dad.
I walked home empty-handed, wondering what could have caused this. Even though this wasn't the first time something like this had happened in Ashdown, I had never encountered anything this serious. I got home, and standing before me was a huge Black man with an eyepatch, dressed in a military uniform. "Dad!" I shouted, running to hug him, but he declined my hug and gave me a pat on the shoulder. Then he bent down a bit and whispered in my ear, "You are no longer a kid." His words seemed serious, but I still gave him a smile.
There was a riot downtown, so I bought nothing, I said to Mum, who was in the kitchen doing something I couldn't see. I sat down near Dad, trying to reach for his hand to rest on it, but when he glared at me, I resisted. I looked at his face, feeling like reaching for his eyepatch to touch the scarred eye. When we first arrived in England, Dad got the opportunity to work as a driver for a white military man. One day, on their way home, a group of bandits ambushed their car. The bandits were armed with high-powered firearms, and in the blink of an eye, two soldiers were down, their heads blown off. Dad was on the ground, kneeling, pleading for his life. But when almost all the military men had been taken down, Dad knew it was time to summon courage and save his boss.
While the shooting continued, he raised his head and saw that the bandits were only three in number. He crawled and crouched behind one soldier to request a gun, but the man bellowed at him, "What the hell does a Black man know about a gun?" Before Dad could respond, the soldier yelled again, "Just keep your damn head down, or you'll get your brains blown off!" Before the man could finish his sentence and focus on shooting, one of the bandits took advantage and fired a precise shot. The bullet went through the soldier's skull, and his blood tasted salty in Dad's mouth.
Dad was terrified again; a man had just died in front of him. He couldn't do this anymore, he thought. He sat down behind the car's undercarriage, shivering, wiping the blood splattered on his face with his clothes. He sat there waiting for help, but he didn't see any sign of backup coming soon. So, he bent down and looked through the car's undercarriage, clearly seeing the bandits' legs. He picked up the gun left by the dead soldier, aimed it, and took his shot, hitting a bandit's leg. The other two, now aware of the situation, quickly used their car tires as cover for their legs. They lifted the injured one and threw him across the bridge. With no options left, Dad stood, holding the gun firmly, and ran toward the bandits' car without them seeing him. He stormed the first bandit and shot him in the abdomen. The remaining one got smart and took the first shot before Dad, hitting him in the eye. But fortunately for Dad, he had already pulled the trigger just as the bullet pierced his eye. The bullet killed the bandit instantly, and Dad fell into unconsciousness.
Dad woke up two days later; he had fallen unconscious due to shock, the doctor told Mom. Due to Dad's bravery, he was offered a position in the military as a secret agent.
Mummy walked in carrying a tray with a plate of mashed potatoes. She served Dad first, then me. A long silence filled the room, broken only by the sound of our chewing echoing around us. The room felt cooler now, as the heat from cooking had dissipated. I tried to speak to Dad, to tell him about what I saw at the store, but my mouth stayed shut. It felt like a bubble was holding my words back, trapping them in my throat.
I have to say this, I thought, because Dad would surely enlighten me. He'd know something about it. But just as I was about to force the words out, Dad interrupted.
"I killed three today," he said, his spoon hovering as he stared at his food.
My mom looked at my face and saw I was still eating. She ordered me to go outside, but I pretended not to hear, eating even faster than before. Reluctantly, I went out but stayed close enough to listen through the door. I couldn't hear much, but I caught Mom crying as she told Dad to quit his job and work at the railroad. Dad refused, saying he had something more important to do before he could quit. Suddenly, I heard footsteps and quickly moved far from the door to avoid suspicion.
Dad walked out, patted my shoulder, and headed to his Volkswagen Golf. He zoomed off, which meant he wouldn't be celebrating my birthday with me.
The next day felt just like any other day, even though it was my birthday. My mum woke up early to sing me a birthday song. I'm eighteen now, but nothing really feels different—I still feel the same as yesterday.
Since we were already running short of food, I had to check the store again, so I strolled down to Asheville. Everything had calmed down there; the stores were open, and there were no longer any stains of blood or scattered body parts. People were walking the streets again, smiling like nothing had happened the day before. I grabbed some foodstuffs from the store and headed home.
The snow was heavy that day. All the parked cars were buried under it, and with my legs almost stiff from the cold, I struggled to walk. I was nearly home when I saw a group of white students gathered at the corner of a building. Another student was in the middle of them, receiving a brutal beating.
I moved closer and watched for a moment to understand what was happening. It was clear they just wanted his wallet, but he refused to hand it over even though they were beating him badly.
"Just drop the fucking wallet, I'll return it later," one of the students said, stepping on his hand, while the others laughed.
Dad always told me to mind my own business and never interact with the whites, because I'd regret it later. So, I acted like I saw nothing and kept walking. I had barely taken three steps when I heard a faint voice.
I turned back and saw the boy's lips moving. He raised his hand, as if trying to reach me. From the shape of his mouth, it seemed like he was asking for help.
"Eh, eh," one of the bullies called out to me. "Just get your butt out of here. Go, go." He waved his hand dismissively.
I stood there for a few seconds, lost in thought, staring at the boy and wondering how much could be inside that wallet that made him refuse to let it go.
"Just let him go." The words slipped out of my mouth. I tried to take them back, but it was already too late.
"What?" one of the students asked, laughing. He seemed to be the leader.
I had already said it, so there was no point pretending.
"I said let him go," I repeated, this time with more confidence. I stepped closer, clenching my fist.
"I should let him go?" he asked again. "How about you go through us first?"
They moved closer to me. There were four of them. They weren't bigger than me, and their hands were thinner than mine. I clenched my fists, knowing what they wanted now was a fight.
They made the first move. The first guy threw a punch straight at my face, but I dodged it just in time. I bent low and rushed at him, lifted him, and slammed him hard onto the ground. I followed it with a heavy punch to his face, then quickly got back on my feet.
The other three rushed me before I could catch my breath. They pushed me to the ground and started landing blows on my face and head. But I was still stronger than them.
I grabbed the one closest to me, who was sitting on my stomach, and hit him hard. He fell back. Using all my strength, I pushed the other two off me. I quickly stood up and charged at them again. I shoved the one I had hit earlier, and blood started gushing from his mouth and nose.
When the others saw this, they ran. That's when I realized I had just defeated their leader.
The boy I helped was still sitting around the corner, his head buried in his lap like he was ashamed. I moved closer and stretched out my hand to help him up, but he ignored it and suddenly ran away.
I picked up the foodstuffs I had bought. They were all covered in snow now—I had dropped them earlier when the fight started. I carried them and headed home, where I met my mum waiting outside.
"What took you so long?" she yelled as soon as I got close. Before I could reply, she shouted again, "What are those bruises all over your body? Did you get into a fight?"
I stood there silently, not knowing what to say. I expected more shouting, but instead she walked inside, her voice breaking. She was crying.
That's my mum. She curses me whenever I do something wrong, but most times, she ends up crying. I'd rather take the curses—I hate seeing her cry.
I went inside and dropped the food in a corner, looking at it pitifully. She wiped her tears and walked toward me.
"I don't want you to be like your father," she said, holding my hands. "You have to become a peaceful man and do a peaceful job. Violence is not the way to stop violence."
She was still talking when we heard a knock on the door.
Is that Dad again? I thought. We rarely had visitors—only Dad and his friend, Mr. Shaw, and they never came in the morning.
"Can you please get the door?" my mum said.
I stood up, walked to the door, and opened it. Two police officers stood in front of me. I froze.
"You're under arrest on suspicion of assault," one of them said. "Put your hands behind your back."
"Arrested?" My mum rushed forward, pulling me behind her. "What has my son done?"
"Suspicion of assault, ma'am," the other officer replied.
"What?" she said, turning to me, her eyes already swollen. "What did you do?"
I didn't answer. I just stared at the ground.
The officers gently moved her aside and handcuffed me. I tried to resist, but they were stronger.
"You do not have to say anything," one of them began, "but it may harm your defence if you do not mention something when questioned which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
They led me into their Ford Sierra and drove off. My mum ran after the car, trying to catch up, but she couldn't. Soon, she disappeared from view.
The vehicle stopped in front of a red-brick building with a police sign outside. A few vehicles were parked nearby, including a van.
I was taken inside. People sat on benches in front of a glass counter, with an officer behind it. I looked closer and recognized the boys from the fight—and four adults, probably their parents.
"That's him!" one of the boys shouted.
Their parents stood up immediately. One of them tried to hit me, but the police held him back.
I was led down a narrow hallway into a small room at the end. They removed my handcuffs and pushed me inside.
At first, the room was dark. After a few seconds, my eyes adjusted. The room was filled mostly with Black men, with only a few white men among them. They were all adults—most of them muscular, with tattoos covering their arms.
"Hey, little guy… how the hell did you end up here?" a voice came from the corner.
I couldn't see clearly at first, but then a large man stepped forward. He looked about forty. He held something in his hand—a plank, or maybe a metal bar. I couldn't tell.
He walked closer. I had to tilt my head up just to see his face.
"We heard about you before they threw you in here," he said, his voice deep and rough. "Is it true your dad is a British agent?"
My heart dropped.
"Do you know your father put most of us here?" he continued. "Do you know how many lives he's taken?"
The other men began to stand, cracking their necks, stretching, preparing.
I knew I had no chance against them. But I couldn't die here. And I was sure the police wouldn't help me. Even if I shouted, it would be useless.
I stood firm, forcing myself to stay calm. My eyes searched the room for anything I could use as a weapon. My chest rose and fell as I breathed heavily.