It was that high summer day in August when I had left the classroom to stop by the water cooler. My eyes had wandered to the school playground and the swings. I never got a chance to play, with roughshod kids like Jerome making their way there first.
He beat everyone to it and hogged it for the entire recess. The only time I sat on it yesterday, Jerome had stormed across, his eyes throwing daggers at me. Clutching my collar, he had yanked me off. Even before I could get my bearings, I was face down, his meaty hand pushing my head into the ground and raining blows on me with the other.
Tasting blood and gritty sand in my mouth, I wished I was stronger than him to fight him back. Raucous laughter and snide remarks from Jerome followed me as I meekly staggered away.
That lowdown worm! I wish I could squish him underfoot until his innards spread out like jelly and marmalade all over the playground! I wish that his so-called territory would be splattered with his blood!
****
Now was my chance at the swings! Meanwhile, mid-afternoon hunger pangs were gnawing at me and I longingly looked at the school garden as I made my way towards the playground. Lost in a reverie, I pushed open the garden gate and ventured inside where the children usually weren’t allowed.
The wired fences were entwined with strawberries, blackberries and raspberries! The tangy juice and wholesome bites of the fruits refreshed me.
Corn cobs! My favorite snack!
Just as I was admiring the towering stalks, I heard hysterical screaming and another one hollering instructions. The voice was unfamiliar and malevolent. Gunshots zinged past the metal of the swings. Clamping my ears and pursing my mouth, I urged myself to not even breathe!
The screaming didn’t stop. The gunshots were manic, fired haphazardly. Terror cruised through me and I lay crouched, hidden among the creepers, vines and the patch of tall corn. After what seemed like hours, I heard police sirens, ambulances and school parents in a mass hysteria outside the gates.
A young man in handcuffs was dragged towards one of the police cars. Injured kids, some dead, some barely alive were wheeled out in all urgency.
Jerome hadn’t made it… his body, ridden with bullets was a bloody mess!
Jerome, I didn’t mean for you to have such a brutal and painful death…
Jerome…
Jerome is gone! My classmates… all gone!
Torn… mangled…
I survived…
After a while, I was found grasping my head and rocking back and forth, muttering incoherently.
*****
The swings have long since been abandoned and are a host to an overgrowth of shrubbery. The sand, leveled by the breeze and many seasons, bears no footprints of my classmates, although the leaves whisper all their names when a wayward wind rustles them…
Jerome… Mea culpa… Mea culpa…
Author’s Note:
Mea Culpa is an expression of guilt.
Pic Courtesy: Pixabay
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