Life can be depressing. Depressing, repetitive, and tiresome. Sometimes all we need is a little color- or six- to remind us that life is worth living. Or sometimes, all we need is a little color to remind us that our lives could be worse.
Some people don't deserve this color, this ray of happiness, in their lives. They don't deserve anything. Color, forgiveness... Life. Be warned, for this is not just poetry. This is a description of a tragedy. A painful tragedy, a horrible tragedy. A real tragedy. One that I have personally witnessed. One that I was a part of.
It all started last Spring. I was on my way home from work, going through a backward town in Georgia. I didn't want to be in this town. I had seen enough within the past five minutes to know that it wasn't safe, especially not for one with my... Heritage. However, luck had escaped me. My car broke down.
I signed and left the car. There was always the option of getting a ride from someone. I pulled out my phone and checked the signal. I didn't have any bars. Perfect.
I decided I'd wander through town. Perhaps I'd find some sort of maintenance shop, somewhere I could get some help. It took forever, but I finally found one. "Louie's Auto Repair," apparently.
There were barely any cars parked there. The ones that were had been rusted and beaten terribly. I wasn't quite so sure if this was the right place to go, but what choice did I have? As I walked past the garage, I saw two men, their faces smeared in oil, their vocal chords emitting pig-like laughter.
"Excuse me," I said, "I was wondering if you could fix my car. It started making some weird noises, then it stopped."
They looked at me and stopped laughing. The one on the left, who was rather muscular, had hatred burning in his eyes. He approached me, slowly. "We don't like yer kinda folk 'round here. Why don't you take yer silly skin and get outta here, ya filthy nig-"
"Wayde," the other one said, "be polite. Just 'cause he look different don't mean he any worse 'an us two folk."
Wayde glared at him before backing off. "You lucky bastard," he said, "if I ain't so respectful o' Clark, you'd be cryin' for yo momma right now."
"Sorry 'bout Wayde," Clark said, rubbing his neck. "Seems most folk 'round these parts don't like no black man."
"I'm used to it," I said, "I work in another city like this."
"I'm sure ya are. Terrible thing, it is. Now, what's that ya wanted? Yer car's broke?"
"Yes. It just stopped working."
"Lemme have a go at it. Where is the damned thing?"
"Just a few blocks ahead."
Clark followed me out of the garage and onto the sidewalk. A few blocks later, I located my car. I went over again what happened. He looked through my hood, inspecting my engine thoroughly.
After a few minutes of this, Clark stood back up. "Ah'd better get to the g'rage, a'ight? I gotta get a tow truck. Follow, or don't. It don't matter."
Clark headed back to the auto repair shop. I decided I'd just wait for him, because he would be returning anyway. I sat on the hood of my car and waited. The faster this was done, the better.
About three minutes had passed, and I changed my mind. I'd go back to see what the problem was. I got up and started walking back.
I got up and headed back. What was taking them so long?
A box. Clark was staring at a box, with an expression of awe. This cardboard box was beaten, torn up, and just plain junk-like. On the side, someone wrote "Give to good home" in a black marker.
I approached Clark. "Ain't that interestin'," he said.
No, its a crappy box.
I was wrong. It wasn't just a box. It had something in it. Something more adorable than anything I had ever witnessed. And it was in a crappy box.
It was a pony. A very young filly, actually. She was... Blue. With a rainbow mane and tail. And... wings. I had never seen such a thing. It was extraordinarily beautiful.
Clark picked up the filly. "Come on," he said, "let's getcha back to the shop. I ain't gonna let anyone there miss this thing."
I knew this was a bad idea, considering how Wayde acted. But perhaps it was my fault. I should have said something. I just didn't know how bad it was going to get.
As we arrived at the garage, I heard Wayde cursing at a car. "Fuckin' thing's a piece o' shit! Who owns these fuckin' cars?"
Clark walked up to him and held out the filly. Wayde grinned as he held his hands out. "My god," he said, "ain't this a sight fer sore eyes..."
"Sure is, ain't it?"
"What is it?"
I watched as Wayde put the filly on the ground. She stumbled at first, but then stood. She looked scared. She looked lost, confused. Hopeless.
"Sit," Wayde laughed. "Ya dumb animal, don't ya know any fuckin' tricks?"
The filly still did not move. She didn't understand, it seemed. Someone else walked into the garage. "What the hell is going on here?"
"Sorry, uh, Loiue sir," said Clark, "we found this... Thing... And..."
"Hmm... I guess we can keep it. Who's this guy?"
"I'm Jordan," I said. "That Wayde guy is really something."
Wayde raised his chest. "The hell's that supposed to mean? Ya little punk, I'll beat the shit outta you!"
Wayde picked up a wrench off of the nearby shelf and raised it above my head.
"Hey," Louie said, "easy." He turned to me. "Young man, people o' your kind ain't gonna find no kindness 'round this town. I suggest ya leave."
"The guy's car broke," Clark sighed, "so he's gonna be stuck here for a while. Probably won't be able to fix it fer a couple a days."
"Wait," Wayde said, "I gotta be stuck with this jackass fer a few days?" He turned to the small, shaking filly, and gave it a good whack on the head with the wrench. A bit of blood splatter out from its head and onto the wrench and floor.
The filly flinched, but it didn't cry. I wanted to cry. I wanted to hug her, comfort her. But I couldn't. Not with that brute nearby.
"Tell ya what," Louie said, ignoring the filly's pain, "you can spend the night in this here shop. Wayde, you stay here. Make sure he don't do nothin' dumb."
"Fine." Wayde struck the filly again in anger. More blood was drawn, this time from its back. The filly collapsed to the ground, crying. It was clearly in pain. I turned to Clark. He seemed to not care at all. Was I the only one here with morals?
I stayed in the garage the rest of the day. There wasn't a single customer all day, although one person did pick up their car. I asked if they could just take me home so I could call someone to get the car, but of course they shut the door and called me a racial slur.
I sighed. At least Clark had finally called in the tow truck he promised, so my car was ready for repairs. However, this was pointless, as closing time had arrived.
Clark had the decency to order a pizza for Wayde and I. He gave us some money, and he was on his way. We were alone now. The instant he was sure Clark had left, Wayde approached me.
"Time to get to business, punk."
"Sorry?"
"You don't belong 'ere. If yer gonna stay 'ere, stay away from me, an' keep the filly in check."
"Sure thing."
Wayde glared at me before wandering off into the back, where he had a bed and a TV. I had the garage floor and some spare car parts. I lay down, hoping to doze off relatively quickly. I would just let him eat the pizza. I wasn't going to get a slice anyway, based on what I had seen.
As I closed my eyes, something soft brushed against me. I opened my eyes once more to find the injured filly snuggling up next to me. I smiled a bit. It was nice to see some sort of creature that wasn't an idiot or a racist.
She didn't stay long, though. When the pizza delivery guy arrived, she freaked out and ran to what was probably the most dangerous place in the building: Wayde's room.
After Wayde purchased the pizza, he headed back to his room. Just as I expected, he swore at me and screamed. I ran in to see what the actual problem was. The filly had wetted his bed. He grabbed the filly's wing and pulled it into the air, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You damned filly gonna learn a lesson, you ain't never gonna fuggit!"
Wayde snatched a pen off of his desk and jabbed her neck with it. The filly let out a cry of pain as the pen penetrated the layers of her skin. Blood spewed all over the place.
That did it. There was no way she would service with a punctured windpipe and that amount of blood loss. I lost it. I didn't care how big and strong that guy was.
I felt the weight of his body under mine, both of which were falling to the ground. He let go of the filly, banging her into the TV before a hard landing on the cement floor.
I punched his nose. It was the first time I had ever punched someone. I felt the bone break, I could feel his blood smear. I was pummeling him, and I wouldn't let up.
Wayde raised the pen and jabbed my neck with it. I screamed and staggered back, the pen hole spewing out blood. I could feel it, and it hurt.
Wayde chuckled as he stood, wiping the blood off of his face. He grabbed the bawling, screaming pony and started hitting it against the wall.
"This is what ya get," he said, "for bein' different!"
I was coughing up blood, and I knew I was done. I couldn't move. I was at his mercy as I died slowly, watching the filly get brutally murdered.
"Ya know," Wayde said, "I used to be a preacher for mah church." Wayde was know taking the pen and jamming it into the filly's abdomen, causing a large amount of blood to start spilling out.
"I still could preach." Wayde stabbed the pony again with the pen. "And ya know, its prolly better if I give this little bitch something for her sins."
Wayde took one last toss with the filly, like he was playing some kind of awful game. The pony wasn't moving or breathing. It was a bleeding of flesh and bone. Nothing more.
I was trying to get out some words, to tell this man how wrong, how terribly, terribly wrong he was, but I couldn't. All I could make were muffled gurgling sounds.
"I'd like to give a sermon," he said, "because that's what a preacher does. The point is, you ain't worthy o' livin'. No man who ain't a white man should be livin' in this here town. Amen."
My vision was blurring. I was done. It was over. I saw the light. I climbed towards it. And as I grabbed it, I awoke in a hospital bed.
"Ugh..."
Clark was next to me, as well as Wayde. "I was walkin to the shop, to make sure everything was okay," Clark said. "Apparently, the filly tried to kill you? If it weren't for Wayde, you'd be dead."
I tried to tell him that was a lie, that he killed the innocent filly, but I couldn't. I couldn't make a sound yet. As Clark left the room, Wayde took out a knife from his back pocket and cut the IVs. Smiling, he left.
"Today," he said, "I'll be preaching a rainbow."
