Page 26 of Shrapnel

One such apartment was on the third story of a brick building. There was nothing special about this building. Its brick façade was crumbling from years of neglect. Every other window was blocked by the bulk of an AC unit. Water dripped from the bottom of the units and splashed onto their downstairs neighbor’s window. The constant moisture had mold crawling in the cracks and crevices of the building, festering just out of sight.

Much like the residents.

It was a mind-your-business kind of apartment block. There was no such thing as friendly neighbors willing to share a cup of sugar in a pinch. No sociable wave and smile as they passed by in the halls.

Inside a third-story apartment, a boy nestled into the back of a closet. The bi-fold doors were closed tightly, the only light coming in from the slats in the Louvered doors. Crouched over, the four-year-old raced his toy car around the blocks of light. Skidding on two wheels as he made hairpin turns on the carpet, imagining the whooshing and vrooming as his car careened on an invisible racetrack.

The closet was hot. Sweat prickled at his skin and his dirty hair clung to his skin. It stunk. He stunk. But he didn’t notice. He didn’t know any other way to be.

He didn’t look out the slats. He wasn’t supposed to.

Outside the closet there were noises. His mother was on her back, legs spread with a man between them. The slap, slap, slap of skin on skin was occasionally punctuated by her breathless moans or his grunts. Sometimes he shouted things.

There was hardly any furniture in the one-bedroom apartment—two lawn chairs his father brought home and a dingy mattress in the back room. They didn’t own a TV like most people and even if they did it wouldn’t matter. There was no electricity in the apartment.

Because the bedroom was too hot, the adults were in the living room just outside the closet. They hadn’t even removed their clothes, just shifted them aside while they fucked on the floor.

A cockroach scuttled over the rancid carpet. The boy’s eyes lit up in delight at the new source of entertainment. He drove his car alongside it. The roach was fast. A suitable opponent for his makeshift course.

In a bid to escape the boy and his car, the roach veered off the track and crawled over his hand. He dropped his car in surprise, staring down as the glossy red bug made its way over his hand and up his forearm. Six bristly legs tickled his skin. Goosebumps erupted along his arms, and he giggled.

The boy slapped a hand over his mouth. He had forgotten the rule. Fear replaced the ticklish sensation, the hairs on his arms standing up for a completely different reason.

Outside, the noises had stopped.

“What the fuck?!” the man roared, his dilated pupils turning to look down at the woman below him.

“I…I…I didn’t hear anything,” she stammered, bloodshot eyes wide against the dark bruises around her eyes.

“I told you,” he spat. “I didn’t want to fucking hear him!” his fist crashed down onto her face. She whimpered, curling in on herself as he beat her with his fists and feet. The boy watched between the slats.

“I told him not to!” she screamed. “I told him! I swear I told him! It’s not my fault!”

The man paused. He was no longer aroused, his dick limp between the zipper on his jeans. He turned his attention to the closet.

As the man approached, the boy frantically looked around to make sure his roach friend was gone. The man would step on him if he saw him.

The doors snapped off their flimsy hinges and two large hands reached into the dark. They grabbed the thin boy, pulling him off his feet and shaking him. He closed his eyes, biting down on his lip to keep from crying. His father didn’t like it when he cried.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” his words were meaningless to the boy. Everything was wrong with him. His parents were always angry with him.

His father slapped him a few more times. An open palm that would leave fresh bruises on skin that was already a rainbow of colors.

Tossed to the floor, the boy knew better than to get up. He turned his face to the crusty carpet and inhaled the stench. With his hands over his mouth to keep from accidentally making a sound, he couldn’t block out the noises. His father finished up with his mother and then stomped from the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

It was a long time before she stirred. Dried blood flaked off her swollen nose and lips, but she didn’t seem to notice. Idly she scratched at the scabs on her arms while she stared at the boy.

“…I told you to be quiet,” she hissed in heavily accented English. “Why the hell are you always laughing?”

Her blows didn’t hurt as much as his father's. They were more frantic, a vent to her frustration and pain.

“Mommy please, mommy I’m sorry!” he mumbled into the carpet, willing to say anything to keep her from hitting him.

“Your stupid fucking smiles!” she screeched, tears mixing with the blood on her face. “You look just like him when you smile! Why do you have to look like him? Why do you have to smile?” her words were garbled from tears and a fat lip. “What is there to smile about?”

Her voice broke and she collapsed to the ground beside the boy, curling in on herself. He watched her thin shoulders shake as she cried to herself. Her beautiful long, dark hair was fanned out over the carpet. A man cut it short once. His father didn’t like that. He killed the man. The boy thought his blood looked like cherry soda as it dripped down the wall.

His mother stirred. “Oh,” she said piteously, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Baby I’m…I’m sorry. Come to Mommy.”