A week went by, devoid of anything note worthy, then another. Everything was perfectly normal with only one exception; Me.
The events of that morning in the subway station hadn't left my mind and the more I taught about it, the larger the hole in my mind grew. I could remember things almost perfectly, the crazy preacher, what the radio spoke at the time, the face of the crowd. But there was a gaping hole about the three men and the woman.
I could remember their clothes and acts but any time I tried to conjure the image of their faces, all I saw was a blurry mess. They were like the photographs in the Ring, distorted and unclear.
That night, I walked around the block while completely lost in thoughts. Walking always was a lubricant to the gears inside my head, making the thoughts flow naturally. At this time of the year, the air of the city was cold but fresh, filling my lungs and cleaning my head of the dizziness of my day's work.
I had no destination in my, so I let my feet guide me, wandering around without thinking about it. Around me, the buildings began to degrade, windows were boarded up, the streets dirty, the cars cheaper and the few passer-by were mostly minorities. Certain corners of the South-west of the island weren't the kind of place people wanted to hang around at that time of the night.
Large graffiti on the buildings and pairs of shoes hung from electric wires declared the ownership of gangs in the area. I passed by a teenager openly spray-painting "FUCK THE SYSTEM!" along with an anarchy A. He didn't even look at at me and neither did I.
"It's best for me to shut up..." I whispered to myself when I thought about calling him out.
After about ten minutes, I walked into a park and lazily slouched down on a cold bench, wiping the snow away. I was getting nowhere and I knew it, regardless of how much I tried, the scene wouldn't leave my mind.
After a moment of silence, a shriek pierced the night, seemingly coming from an alley nearby. Part of me urged for me to go and see what was happening, but the other kept saying "Don't interfere, it's none of your business, it's too dangerous."
"I could call the police." I suggested to myself. I took out my phone but there wasn't any signal. I waved it around but it didn't catch anything.
I sheepishly began to walk away, feeling disgust with myself, shame even. I walked to the nearby bus stop, only a few meters away just as a bus pulled next to it. I was about to climb in when I saw something had been spray-painted over the ads on the side of the car.
"Who's your daddy?" it asked rhetorically.
I stopped dead and the bus driver called me out. I look at him and said "Go, I'll wait for the next one." He looked back confused but he drove off.
The graffiti was right, it asked me a question and I knew the answer; My father, Elijah was a bastard, he didn't care for us, he was always on the run, dragging my mother and I along with him. When he died, I didn't cry a single tear.
But he had taught me one thing; Don't lie down and let people step over you...