Akoni Drysdale, “Untitled”

UNTITLED

Akoni Drysdale

When I was younger, the world felt endlessly slow. Some people couldn’t wait to grow up, but as you get older, you want to be younger again. I liked when the world felt endlessly slow because you didn’t know you were growing up till you were grown. Lachrymose is what they named him. Quick to tears, emotional. He didn’t believe he was emotional or quick to cry. He wanted to see what other people saw. Constant banging and a splatter after each bang, he watched as his father threw a mean fist over, over, and over at his mothers unconscious body, that image breaking its way into his mind and latching onto his memories like a parasite feeding on his trauma by constantly replaying that moment . . . Months passed, his mother was in a coma, nobody taught him, mentioned, or spoke to him about how the world doesn’t stop when the people you love are hurt, disabled, or dead, but his world stopped. That image of himself watching without acting as his mother was abused, consumed by fear, made him, Lachrymose, quick to tears. He went home day in and day out living and dying on the inside. His father acted cold, brushing him off; in those same days Lachrymose’s anger, rage, and regret built up and made him change for the better it seemed. Lachrymose came home after visiting his mom, that trauma at six-yearsyoung sitting there still at sixteen-years-old. His dad sitting in his study reading, watching, then asking. “Dad, why don’t you go see Mom?” The silence and tension were getting thicker, you could almost see it. “WHY DON’T YOU GO SEE MOM, DAD?” He closed his book and stood. “Didn’t I tell you not to call me Dad?” his voice calm yet stern, his fist clenching, and Lachrymose freezing. All the rage from all the ages he’s been before

sixteen building up—in his fist was six-year-old him, and in his legs one-year-old him, struggling to stop his legs from shaking, but his rage was sixteen years old. “I’m sorry si—’’ A swing to the face left a ringing in his left ear, a taste of blood and more rage on his tongue, like how a coin smells. Lachrymose’s fist glowing, a faint purple, he swings, his fist connects to his father’s jaw, hitting the strongest muscle in the face and breaking and tearing that jaw in three seconds. His father dropping, off balance trying to get revenge and his fist throwing itself harder and harder until his father was unresponsive. He stopped, looking at himself in the reflection on the mounted TV. Running. Until his heart beat out his chest, inhale, exhale, the only thing his body knew to do at that point. A man grabbing him and pulling him into an alley. A black figure watching from above. The man who grabbed him has cat pudding from his neck, mouth, on the tips of his hair, and from his knee caps. Lachrymose, feeling a roll in his stomach and a gag at the site of the man’s deformity, tried to push him off, but he was latched on by his cat claws, the faint purple glow in his hands are there but are now in his feet and he jumps back; the man drops to the floor and can only drool and cry, muttering, “Ki..ll M..ee.” Lachrymose turned around and ran. The figure that was watching from above appeared in front of him and grabbed him, everyone walking past that alley not hearing or seeing a thing. The man’s hand was not soft like his mother’s or abusive like his dad’s, it was cold, leaving him breathless and shocked. “Kill him.” He handed Lachrymose a revolver, with a suppressor, black, with glowing stripes and the bullet was visible glowing red like the gun. “I can’t.” “If you don’t kill it, it will spread and kill many others.” Lachrymose thought about his mom and all the other people in the world who don’t deserve to go through what that man went

through. His hand trembling, his grip weak, with his finger on the revolver’s trigger, he squinted and he squeezed, and what followed was a small bang sound, and he was pushed back by the impact, the man no longer crying and the cat deformity disappeared from his body, but he was lifeless and didn’t move. “This is your destiny, you’re the one I’ve been waiting for. The child with the gift of speed and strength but at a cost; you will save this world and your mother.” Lachrymose dropped the revolver and grabbed the man’s shirt pinning him against the wall. “What do you know about my mother?” “I know we can save her.” “How?” “Before I tell you, we have to save this world from that virus because if we can’t stop the spread, your mother can’t be saved.” Letting go, Lachrymose inhaled, holding it for two seconds, then exhaled and followed as the man led him into a door in that alleyway. He looked around the place he was in. Arms and ammunition everywhere and the other half of the room was a lab and a bulletin board showing what the virus can and can’t do and where it is spread the most. The man looked at Lachrymose and measured him with only his eyes and opened a closet with suits that were packed with armor and could be activated when worn, protecting the person who wore it. “This is your suit,” he said, holding out a black leather jacket with inside pockets that can hold guns and ammo. The jeans were black and they couldn’t rip or be torn. The shirt was a black turtleneck that had no sleeves and acted as a bulletproof vest. “Nothing too flashy. On a side note we’re heading out immediately, this virus never sleeps.” He gave Lachrymose another revolver and a red and black knife just in case. He slipped it in his boots and they went to the roof. The man stood at the ledge and fell forward and Lachrymose tried to grasp his hand; then the man landed on a building,

leaping to the next and the next, and Lachrymose jumped too, and splat on the concrete . . . He groaned in pain then got up, leaping from buildings that touched the stars to the building that touched the empty streets until they reached an urban area where people had cats protruding out like skin tags that you had to chop off. The things clawed and scratched the glass of a small brownstone house. Lachrymose and the man walked up to the house where they stood, their backs against each other, and they aimed and shot at the zombie-like things. Shot after shot killing each and everyone of the things, sweating as each of the bodies dropped one on the other. “I’m coming Mom, I’ll save you . . .”

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