Читать книгу Sqerm - James A. Moore - Страница 5

Chapter 1

Sage Weiss was a man whose life revolved around order and preparedness. Being unprepared or ill prepared did not sit well with him. Life had been hard for Sage as a boy and harder for him as a young man. The events of his life had honed him into the man that he had become: loyal, honest, and prepared. This night, Sage was preparing not for a specific event but for all occasions. He had learned through his time in the Marine Corps the motto semper fi or “always faithful” and did his best to stay true to that. Sage had adopted this motto and adjusted it to what he affectionately called semper paratus or “always prepared.”

Sage, a young athletic African American man in his early thirties, had just finished up a night jog. He knew the route—he had run it often. It helped him focus his thoughts—though usually during his run, he shifted to the right-brain mode of thinking and thought more than he concentrated on breathing or counting steps.

After his perfunctory three-mile journey on a humid night in Phoenix, Arizona, he returned to his house. He stood in his driveway and placed his hands on his head, fingers interlaced. The sweat on his hands worked as a lubricant, and he had to apply pressure to keep them from slipping apart. He did his best to expand his lungs to take in every bit of oxygen that he could. He was no stranger to exercise—but the Phoenix air was thick and full of humidity. After he had walked a few circles in his driveway, he approached his front door slowly and inserted a key.

Sage loved order. His house was not exceptionally well lit, and he had no need for the lights this evening. His space was clearly organized, nearly to a fault. He removed his shoes and socks. He tucked them neatly into a corner near where several other pairs of shoes belonged to a woman. The staging of the shoes subtly edified that order was a part of Sage’s life.

Sage surveyed his house; it was a modest house that was not flashy, but it was not the small abode that he lived in with his mother. Sage walked to the kitchen, gathered his trash and recycling, and exited a door through the kitchen. Sweat beaded slowly on his forehead, and he wiped his brow while holding the small container a bit too close to his face. The odor of the day’s refuse was not desirable, so he made haste to dispose of it.

As Sage opened the receptacles and began to dump the items, he was hit with a massive desire to scratch at his inner ear. He put his finger deep into his ear canal and wiggled it fervently. After a few seconds, he stopped and continued with the garbage detail. The odor of the massive green receptacle caused his nose just a bit of discomfort. He took a breath and held it, but the effects of the run were still with him. Holding his breath for an extended period was not going to happen. He closed the lids to the receptacles and returned inside. Once inside, he replaced the containers in their proper spots. He paused briefly as though remembering something. He went to the sink, flipped on the water, washed and dried his hands, and then headed toward his home office. Decorations in his house alluded to a lady’s touch. Currently, no lady is present in Sage’s home, but there was one at one time.

Now in his office, Sage clicked away on his computer. The run combined with hours of work had taken a toll on his energy; he began to fade. As sleep overtook him, a man appeared in Sage’s face. He was close enough that just his mere presence brought discomfort, and he yelled obscenities and cast aspersions. Occasionally, spittle flew out of his mouth and landed on Sage’s small arms. The man was Caucasian and in his forties with dark hair that is neatly trimmed. Though his stature was not abnormally large, he loomed over Sage in a fashion not dissimilar to a shadow of a monster in a tale meant to dissuade children from entering a forest alone. He wore the infamous A-shirt—a garment that Sage knew by the moniker wife beater shirt. But at this moment—yes, this moment—the uniform was a son beater shirt. The shirt was too small, and the striated cotton fibers were yellow under the foul man’s armpit. The man was beating a young Sage reasonably violently.

Young Sage used his arms and legs to crab walk backward until his back was against the corner of the kitchen cabinets. He had found a safe spot for the moment, or at least a sheltered spot in this familiar scenario. The adolescent brought his knees up to his chest and utilized his arms to fend off the upper-level salvo, though a part of him wanted to wipe off the spittle. He dared not move his arms for fear of getting hit in the face.

“You will never accomplish anything; and everything that you earn, work for, or deserve will be taken from you,” said the man in a voice that was nearly growling.

The man continued to smack Sage about the head and shoulders. Sage did his best to block the shots but did not swing back and would not cry. Sage was nearly expressionless, and no thoughts crossed his mind, save one—revenge.

A woman in her forties entered into the kitchen. She had a milky-caramel complexion, and it was apparent that, in her heyday, she had been a bombshell. She was still attractive, though less explosive. She sternly gripped the man’s shoulder and spoke. “Chuck, stop. He’s had enough,” she said.

Chuck stopped the physical violence, but the diatribe continued. “See, boy…you’re soft. You let those boys take your bike. You gone’ lose everything. That’s probably why ya daddy left…”

Seeming disturbed by the most recent comment, Sage’s mother intensified her tone. “Chuck, that’s enough,” she reiterated.

Sage was glad that his mother appeared at the time that she did as he knew that the situation could have been much more difficult. As he was leaving the room, Chuck was mumbling.

“You lucky yo’ mama was here. Always having a woman save you. Pitiful…”