She stood there watching as the rain fell down her window. The storm washing through the empty neighborhood, cleansing it of all its secrets, all its pain. However, she knew that once it stopped, the streets will be filled again. There would be even more secrets, even more pain. The sound of metal on metal began to screech, bouncing of the walls of every building. A faint red glow entombed them, as if out of a nightmarish movie. She watched as the bright red number 3 crossed her window, painting the walls red with blood. As the train bended around the NYCHA complex and headed underground, it left behind a deafening darkness. The rumbling caused particles of the cracked lead paint and dust to float into the air. The silence was there, but only just. The noises outside were a reprieve from the shouting and yelling that were happening right outside her bedroom. She looked down into her hands. The cold steel feeling like both chains and freedom. It reflected the moonlight into her face, revealing the ocean that had crashed upon her eyes. Despite her efforts to hold it back, the high tide was too much, as it descended upon her brown skinned cheeks. Transfixed by what was in her hands, she took it in. The full metal jackets nestled tightly in their chambered sockets. The pale light bouncing off the cylinder, the hammer pulled all the way back, her palm tightly wound around the brown finished grip. She held it in her hands, enthralled, lost in thought, though also absent of any specific one. She just looked at it, as each tear, crashed onto her palm where it met the handle. The screams outside got louder, the bangs and crashes more severe. With each tear drop that fell from her face, another scream, more spewing of hatred, assault of what she was too scared to see. She slowly crept to the door, the crashes causing her heart to jump. As she opened the door, she saw pieces of broken plates and ceramic cups. She brushed past them, ignoring the scrapes and cuts applied to her feet through her pink “Hello Kitty” socks. She walked forward, reaching the end of the corridor. The light from the kitchen climbing from her feet to her face, like the waxing of the moon.
“Mommy…,” she could barely voice in a whimper. What she saw was the body of a woman, beaten and bloody, collapsed on the floor almost lifeless. Scratches and bruises engulfed her body like that of a Chucky doll. A man stood over her with a rolling pin in his hand, knuckles bruised and bloodied. He wore no shirt and the tattoos can be seen crawling up his body in various different patterns. He turned to look at her.
“Lil’ bitch. I’ll give you something to cry about,” he spoke in an almost inhuman way. He began to approach her, but just as he began to move, her mother grabbed his foot, in some attempt to stop him.
“Get the fuck off me,” he said as he kicked her against the cupboard doors, “Worthless bitch.”
“MOMMY!” Instinctual or through rage, she wasn’t sure; she just found her hands pointing straight at him. His face flushed in panic, his hand up in a defensive posture.
“Woah, woah, lil’ momma. What you doing with that? J-ju-just take it easy,” he stammered, “Put that down.”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then he lunged. All she can remember was her fingers tensing up. The loud screeching of metal on metal as another train moved pass the building to head underground. The rumbling that caused particles of cracked lead paint and dust to float into the air. Then there was silence, almost. What followed after was only a loud “thud”.
Crimson and navy lights flooded the street, as another number 3 walked its daily beat.