Choking

Short fiction

Photo by Philipp Lansing on Unsplash

I don’t want anyone to see me. It’s why I keep my hood up and eyes down as I walk toward Ms. Vasquez’s English class. She’s standing in the hallway by her door.

“Morning, Tre. How are you?” she asks.

I meet her eyes. Try to speak. But I’m choking. All I see are my stepdad’s fists flying. I feel his hands around my throat and smell a cloud of cheap vodka. There’s broken glass, phone calls, drifting in and out of a fog . . . flashing lights.

“I’m fine,” I reply, my voice sounding kind of scratchy.

I shuffle past, sit at my desk, and wait for class to begin.

Ms. Vasquez takes us deeper into her poetry unit, talking about people like Pablo Neruda and Maya Angelou. All I see is the torn-apart kitchen and Mom smashing Will over the head with a bottle. There’s nothing but screams. Struggle. Blood on the floor.

At some point, I catch something Ms. Vasquez says. It’s about a caged bird singing. I don’t know why, but I wish Mom would sing like she used to.

I drift elsewhere without realizing it. I wonder what Will’s doing in his jail cell right now – wonder if he’s thinking about all the times he messed up.

The bell rings. I snap out of it, shove my books back into my bag – turn to leave.

“Tre,” Ms. Vasquez says. “Hold up a minute. You know I’m here for you if you need anything, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”

I think about leaving, but something inside me tells me to sit back down.

So I do.

Thanks so much for reading my story today. Though a bit on the darker side, I hope there are undercurrents of hope as well.

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I hope you have a wonderful week! See you on Friday for my monthly Embers post.