{"id":16415,"date":"2022-03-14T17:30:09","date_gmt":"2022-03-14T17:30:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/?p=16415"},"modified":"2022-03-23T12:58:04","modified_gmt":"2022-03-23T12:58:04","slug":"hereditary-wounds-a-short-story","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/hereditary-wounds-a-short-story\/","title":{"rendered":"Hereditary Wounds: A Short Story"},"content":{"rendered":"
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by Dom Alexander<\/em><\/p>\n

Hereditary Wounds: A Short Story<\/p>\n

by\u00a0CONTRIBUTORS<\/a><\/p>\n

I try to focus on that and not my father. It’s difficult, especially when the cold blade is tucked into my hand.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Rummaging through a dead man\u2019s possessions is, perhaps, the strangest thing I\u2019ve ever done. I sit on the floor in his room. The setting, orange sun seeps through the window. I breathe in the pungent cologne, still clinging onto curtains. The carpet sinks, coinciding with the dancing footsteps of a ghost, stepping to the high squealing melody of Louis Armstrong. Plaster fills drunken-punched holes; an ashtray full of cigarette butts is on the dresser; a pressed work-shirt hangs on the closet door.<\/div>\n

I flip through dusty photos and find one of a young boy, no more than seven years old sitting next to an older man. The hardened lines etched across the older man\u2019s face, resemble my father. I assume this photo is another hereditary wound.<\/p>\n

I never met my grandfather, but my father didn\u2019t speak kindly of him. A month ago, he stumbled home after a night at Jackie\u2019s Juke, reeking of shine\u2019, fumbling with his tongue. He found me in the kitchen reading.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoy, what the hell is ya doin\u2019?\u201d he swung back and forth, an unsteady bowling pin.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust a lil\u2019 readin\u2019 befo bed pa,\u201d I answered with indifference. I was eighteen, so I supposed he expected me out, chasing tail. However, it was always the same answer any night he found me at the table.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs all you do is read? Yeen got no friends,\u201d he supported himself against the stove.<\/p>\n

\u201cRich gave me this book,\u201d my eyes remained fixed on my page.<\/p>\n

\u201cNigger, you betta look at me when I\u2019m talkin\u2019 to you. You gon respect me in\u00a0my<\/i>\u00a0house,\u201d he slapped the book off the table. He jacked me up by collar forcing me to look into his unfocused eyes. He was there but possessed. A spirit from the past suffering from unhealed wounds conjured up by the shine\u2019. He stared through my eyes, into my soul searching for something, anything, that resembled a man.<\/p>\n

He released me then cackled and I got the urge to bash his brains out over the beige kitchen tiles. I always did in these moments. I never could act on my impulses, because fear always, rather quickly, expelled the urge.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the same look yo damn granddaddy had,\u201d he leaned back against the stove, his feet beside my book, \u201che was chicken-shit just like you. A white man could\u2019ve told im\u2019 dig his own grave. He would\u2019ve asked \u2018how deep boss?\u2019 Always sayin\u2019 respect the white man. Couldn\u2019t be me. Ain\u2019t no cracka ass honkie dare gone disrespect me and get away with it. No nigger neither.\u201d<\/p>\n

I studied his furrowed brow and distant eyes. Simultaneously, he saw the past failings of his father and the future failings of his son.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll make sure my boy don\u2019t live on his knees,\u201d he said, not to me, but out into the world.<\/p>\n

\u201cLookie here boy,\u201d he met my eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know I loves you. But you can\u2019t live like my ol\u2019 man. You can\u2019t let nobody just run ya ova like you did Horace. You gotta grow a pair.\u201d<\/p>\n

I\u2019m still sitting on the floor searching the room, for nothing specific, just any inklings of who my father could\u2019ve been away if away from the world. I chuckle to myself realizing four walls couldn\u2019t contain a man\u2019s essence.<\/p>\n

\u201cArchi!\u201d Richmond yells my name, standing in the doorframe \u201cMan, I was banging on the front door and calling you. You had me worried there for a sec.\u201d I can tell Rich means what he says.<\/p>\n

\u201cI must\u2019ve ain\u2019t heard you,\u201d I stand.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat means you ain\u2019t gone hear if a hood comes and make you dance for those clams,\u201d I can\u2019t tell if he is still serious because of his love for dry humor.<\/p>\n

\u201cI swear sometimes I\u2019s don\u2019t even understand half of what you sayin\u2019 \u2013 do all the niggers from Harlem talk like you?\u201d I stretch a bit.<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly the coldest of cats.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMan nuff\u2019 of ya fool shit,\u201d I laugh, \u201cIs you trying to get on this?\u201d I reveal a jug of shine\u2019 from the same chest I found the photos.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that hooch?\u201d his voice rises.<\/p>\n

\u201cIon knows what hooch is, but this the best shine\u2019 DeKalb county eva done tasted. Now, let\u2019s gone. This room startin\u2019 to make me a lil\u2019 stir crazy,\u201d I sip some then pass it to Rich. He tastes it and coughs.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019ll grow on ya,\u201d I smile.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt feels like someone struck a match inside my chest.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt gets the job done, now come on.\u201d<\/p>\n

We walk the dirt road, wandering as the sun sets and Rich gets used to the taste. He starts rambling about Harlem \u2013 all of its sounds and smells.<\/p>\n

All of a sudden like a growling truck barreling through a quiet night, Rich asks, \u201chow have you been dealing with it? I know we don\u2019t talk about it, but I found you in his room daydreaming the last few days.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hear him, but I don\u2019t answer. I stop to listen to the cicadas string a symphony, gathering my response.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you know a week before he died, he gave me this?\u201d I fish into my pocket to show a poker. I twirl it in between my fingers.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know how he died?\u201d I keep the blade dancing.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was at Jackie\u2019s and got to arguin\u2019. Somebody bumped into him. We know my pa never been the type to just let things pass on by. They say he was drinkin\u2019 and carryin\u2019 on bout respect when a fight broke out. Next thing you know they find pa on the floo\u2019 with a poker in his side.\u201d<\/p>\n

Rich stays silent. I stare at the knife, wondering.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s strange, though, because I don\u2019t feel like I lost anything. When they first told me, I felt nunthin\u2019. I didn\u2019t shed a tear or nunthin\u2019. He was an asshole, and there were times I wanted to kill him myself. But what\u2019s even stranger is, now I wanna know what made him the way he was.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut why if you hated him,\u201d Rich interjects.<\/p>\n

I shrug. I start to walk again, turning to face him.<\/p>\n

\u201cEnough about death. We alive and kickin\u2019, so let\u2019s live life. The Mayberry sisters say they\u2019d make me an apple pie anytime as long as I bring you. How that sound?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes a wolf howl at the moon?\u201d he jumps with excitement.<\/p>\n

I finish the jug of shine,\u2019 then toss it after a snooping squirrel. I can already taste the pie, its golden crust with its moist, gooey insides. I can see how the steam will snake off the pie and settle into my nostrils, tickling the hairs with a sweet touch. I try to focus on that and not my father. It\u2019s difficult, especially when the cold blade is tucked into my hand. I have the impulse to fling it into the darkness, hoping it would take the weight it carried. Maybe if I was the man he wanted me to be, he wouldn\u2019t have needed to give it to me. Perhaps he\u2019d still be alive.<\/p>\n

The roar of an engine startles us. I look back to see a rusted, Chevy pickup chugging down the street. The night blankets the other details of the truck, turning it into a mysterious monster with wide eyes. It begins to pass us then stops. My fingers throb from choking the poker as one strangles a rope as he hangs from a cliff. I squint to see who is stopping.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait, I think I recognize that truck,\u201d Rich says.<\/p>\n

A behemoth stomps out of the truck with dirty, hole-filled overalls and a cigarette dangling on their lip. A straw-hat shadows their face under the moonlight, but it\u2019s clear who it is.<\/p>\n

\u201cHorace,\u201d I suck my teeth, \u201cc\u2019mon now, we ain\u2019t got time for this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Horace sways. He looks to be dancing with the same demons my father stepped with.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook atcha, missa big shot,\u201d he slides closer.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what you want, but we ain\u2019t lookin fa troub-\u201d Horaces cuts Rich a mean look. Rich moves closer to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou think you betta than meh,\u201d Horace can\u2019t stand still without rocking, \u201cyou ain\u2019t no betta than meh nigger. Think cuz yuh got money yuh betta than meh?\u201d he tosses the cigarette.<\/p>\n

I instinctively switch out the blade and hold it towards him, \u201clook, Horace, don\u2019t make me-,\u201d he bursts into thunderous laughter. He stalks nearer. Sweaty and shaky hands are the worst tools to hold a poker with but stopping my body from shivering is impossible.<\/p>\n

He grabs my shoulders. I yell and close my eyes. A thump hitting the ground forces me to look. Thick, rose-colored syrup hides my hand, the poker is missing. I find it in Horace\u2019s side, pinning him to the ground.<\/p>\n

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Dominique Alexander is from Decatur, GA. He was paralyzed at 19 and after almost dying, writing found him at the darkest of times.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  by Dom Alexander Hereditary Wounds: A Short Story by\u00a0CONTRIBUTORS I try to focus on that and not my father. It’s difficult, especially when the cold blade is tucked into my hand. Rummaging through a dead man\u2019s possessions is, perhaps, the strangest thing I\u2019ve ever done. I sit on the floor in his room. The Read More…<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":16417,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[133,1],"tags":[1303,1088],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16415"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=16415"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16415\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16418,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16415\/revisions\/16418"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/16417"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=16415"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=16415"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test.nahtnow.com\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=16415"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}