The light was gloomy. Like the day wouldn’t show itself. It kept it’s new beginning contained, hidden behind an exterior of shadowy images of day. Even birds were flying low. They crossed your path like regular pedestrians.
I bounced back when their wind stroked my hair, I thought they would land on my head. Stroking my hair as if to put it straight, I saw it. The birds cried in high shrieks leaving goosebumps on every limp and my eyes watered. Oceans entered. Barely see-through, but black oceans, oceans of hate and violence.
I saw the guns. I heard the bang. Felt the slap. I wanted to bent. And falter. But instead I froze and stood in the haze of the gunpowder taking the last bit of light the day had granted us. I think I sniffed or hissed, or produced a sound remotely human. He just stood there and looked at me. What did he know? He could not see what I saw.
The violence was in my mind, in my memories. Just surfacing for the occasion. Like I could take them out of a drawer anytime I needed them. But the thing was I no longer needed them. Now, they had become dirty ghosts. How do you explain your ghosts to your date that thinks he found a decent and smart person? I think of the bird raking my hair. He was right, I should have taken cover. Into the gloom.