Page 7 of Chemistry: The Chemist

Coat.

Shirt.

Whip.

He’d been that nigga since I could remember what a real nigga was. He’d been at the top of his game since I’d noticed as a boy there was one. But, this man… the one before me… was a mere shell of the man I knew up until this moment.

“Richie,” I muttered, still trying to digest the disruptiveness of his appearance.

“I harbor no apologies for my–” he coughed out, grabbing the glass of room-temperature water in front of him.

By the time he’d finished nourishing the dryness of his throat, words still failed him. Me, however, there were a few at the tip of my tongue. I waited, impatiently, as he regained his composure. And, after a silent battle within, I released them with worry.

“Are you dying?”

Tipping around the matter had never served a purpose, in my opinion. Head on, that was how I preferred facing anything that came my way in life, including death.

It was as sure as birth. Whether we believed it or not, we all had a designated hour to leave Earthside. It was the only sure thing in life. You couldn’t cheat it. You couldn’t outrun it.

With a nod, my father wiped the residue from his lips with a white cloth I’d seen countless times before. However, it was the pink stain he left on it that I had never bore witness to. His failure to conceal it was due to another coughing fit he quickly fell victim to.

Blood.

Victim?

Weak. Unfit. Sheeply.

Things I’d never mentioned in the same sentence with my father had come to mind. The strength for standing was no longer within my grasp. I slid the chair from underneath the table and had a seat.

My eyes never left the man who had remained a lone figure in my childhood until along came Rhea and created structure and balance in our world. Before her, it was him and I during my frequent visits and lengthy stays at his home. Things changed from the moment she introduced herself at the dining table in front of a full spread of food she’d prepared. Rhea gave us something pretty to see because all we’d seen was each other and the black-and-white world we’d created to live in. She was color in our colorless sphere.

“How long?” I asked when he was able to speak again.

“Hard to say. The shit is everywhere. Could be six months. Could be a year. Could be two years.”

Two years, the lengthiest mentioned, and it was still not enough time to prepare me to be fatherless. Motherless. An orphan of sorts.

“Don’t spare me.”

“A year. At best.” He shrugged.

I stood, hands and mind anxious.

“Put yourself together, Richie. Get your shit together, you hear? You don’t get to die. Not yet.”

“I don’t plan on it.”

“Good.”

“But, it will happen.”

Nodding, I agreed. The intensity of the moment, the reality of the moment, became too much to bear. I needed fresh air. I needed community. I needed my girls.

One foot in front of the other, I tried putting as much distance between me and the pungent smell. But, it followed me. It followed me until I heard him struggle to call my name.

“Chem!”

The pain in his voice wasn’t from the same pain in my chest. It was from the level of difficulty speaking caused.

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