Qwo-Li Driskill: Story

Sometimes the boy imagines his hair flows in thick crests around his body. He can see it blow behind him as it whips the air. He can hear it as it cracks the sound barrier. He can smell it spark around his head, electricity zapping the dry, fierce winter. Sometimes he imagines his hair roots itself in the ground, dislodges soil, searches for water and minerals in the dense beige clay of the prairie. He sees himself as a tree. He sees himself turn all his leaves toward heaven to soak up light and warmth. The boy wonders if trees are as cold as he is at 2:30 a.m. as he exits his friend’s car and walks towards his front door. "FAGGOT!" The word hits the ground, bounces into the gutter and rattles itself across the chilled pavement like a discarded peach pit. It lands near the toe of his left boot and stares up at him. For a moment his feet stick to the sidewalk. He turns around to find out where the word was thrown from. In the shadows of branches stand two men, immovable. They do not flinch, they watch. He wonders how long they have been there, waiting in the dark. They must have sprouted out of the gravel and oil of the dusty parking lot, warmed by the pink fire of streetlights. "FUCKING BITCH!" The words hit him like hail. He hurries up the stairs to his apartment, unlocks the door with the dull jingle of keys, slips inside and locks the door with his right hand at the same moment his left hand switches off the living room light. He walks briskly through the house, wooden floorboards groaning under his panicked steps, and turns off all the lights. He must have forgot to shut them off before he went out earlier. Inside his chest his heart has turned into a bird ensnared in barbed wire, its yellow feathers tipped in crimson as it tries to break free. His heart flails and convulses hopelessly behind his ribcage. It will not be able to get out. It is already home. The boy comforts his heart as he peers carefully out the window. The men are gone, as if blown away by a storm.

Sometimes the boy imagines he has wings and can fly like Gabriel, like an angel in golden robes. He can feel his hair as it cascades behind him. He can feel air as it pushes through wine colored feathers. He can fly so high that not one limb of the highest tree can ensnare him. He imagines the change in atmosphere as he hurries to a place where he is warm. The boy looks out into the chilled streets. He stands near the window as if he has taken root in the worn planks of his floor. He touches the icy white walls of his shadowed apartment with his fingertips. He is already home.