His heartbeat could be heard upon entry of the house. James was sitting in a wooden chair in his parents’ dining room collecting his breath. He was not wearing any shoes, a seemingly meaningless fact in his own house, save for the shards of broken dinnerware lying on the floor around him. He was sweating profusely, even for being in Mississippi in the heat of summer. It was late night and the air conditioner was running full blast, yet James looked like he had just gone 12 rounds with Manny Paquio. He was even bleeding from his right hand. There was an eerie silence amongst the house. James’ breathing was echoing down the hall and bouncing throughout the halls unimpeded by any other natural sounds. He was alone.
James got up and poured himself a glass of water from one of the few remaining intact glasses. The rage was still coursing through his body and it was all he could handle not to smash everything he touched. He needed a punching bag. The water was refreshing, yet left James still feeling weak and incomplete. He was at a loss for thoughts and words. Not knowing what his next move would be, he decided to take a walk through the warm, muggy night. As he stepped out of the door, James realized exactly how cool and refreshing being inside the house had been.
The late July air almost knocked him back into the house, but James kept walking. He wanted to go find the rest of his family, his parents and sister, but James kept walking. He wanted to unload all of this pain upon something, anything else. So James kept walking.
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