HAWK
INTRODUCTION
I solemnly promise this one thing to myself: I swear that this is the last day, absolutely the very last day, I will ever wait for those heartless bastards: my parents. I leaned back against the corner of this building, the fading grey stucco chipped and pitted and slowly coming off. Five years ago it had been a bank; now there were no banks anywhere. I don’t know why.
Now the only things this building is good for are squatters, who’d broken in through the heavy glass door; looters, who’d taken anything of value from it; and me. I used it to prop myself up during my daily pointless wait. Today I was extra mad at myself for being the gullible smack that I am. We’re
talking way gullible. Why else would I be here?
“Hawk.” The ragged homeless woman shot me a quick worried glance as she hobbled down the street with surprising speed.
I nodded at her. “Smiley.” So-called because she’d lost a lot of her teeth. You hang out on a street corner long enough, you get to know the natives. I’d been hanging out here every day—we’re talking every single fricking day—for ten years. Every day at five o’clock, whether it’s raining, blistering hot, freezing, snowing, wind blowing, whatever. Every day from five to five-thirty. I was here.
And, like, why? Such a good question. One that I ask myself a hundred times every day, when I pretend not to notice what time it is, when really, it’s ticking in my head, down to the minute. Like a bomb, I keep playing with, every day, one that I want to explode. Because if it did, maybe this time, I really wouldn’t go. So why do I keep doing it?
The answer’s always the same: because they asked me to.
My parents. And you know, I can remember just about every face I’ve ever seen. I’m like a super recognizer. I should work for the government, I’m not kidding. Not this government. But some government, somewhere. Anyhow, a million faces, good, bad, and ugly locked away in my mind-vault, and yet… Yet I don’t remember them. Mom and Dad. I remember my father’s hands, standing me on this
street corner.
For some reason, I feel like we were afraid. I could feel a tremor in his fingers, tight in
mine. I think I remember this so clearly because my hands were clean and haven’t been since then. One of them said, “It’s five o’clock now. Stay here for half an hour, till your watch says five thirty. A friend of ours will come get you—or we’ll be back. Promise.” I don’t remember the voice, whether it was soft and warm, or harsh, or desperate, or whispered. I don’t even know if it was my mom or dad that said it.
I lost my watch years ago. It got broken in a fight. Along with my nose, that time. Other things have been broken and bruised since then, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. The one thing that hasn’t broken yet is my spirit. But a few more days of keeping this lonely watch on this crap corner
might do it.