Closed Fists

He grabbed my comic books and started to run. I ran after him. I was faster than him and when I caught him I threw him against the accordion gates of a closed candy store. I hit him over and over again with closed fists. He let go of the bag and ran away. “I was only playin’,” I heard him scream.

The bag full of take-out food that my mother sent me to buy was on the sidewalk. I was afraid to look inside. I let it fall to the ground when I gave chase and I was sure that the container had opened and the medium-rare cooked steak along with the buttered baked potato would be out of its container and one within the bag.

I was twelve blocks away from home and it was dark. I didn’t have a wristwatch but I knew it was about nine o’clock. I was always told to call when I was late but I had spent all my money on comic books.

When I got home my mother snatched the bag out of my hand and shouted at me. I didn’t tell her about the mugging attempt. I just closed my eyes in an attempt to drown her out.

Afterwards I went into my bedroom, tossed the brown paper bag filled with comic books on the bed and wept.

About Ray Onativia

Blogger, Photographer, Human.
This entry was posted in creative writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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