Page 3 of Deadly Sights

The boy sat in amazed silence. “Since I’ve been here, no one’s ever been this nice to me,” he said, choking out the words.

“I’m nice to my people.”

“You say that like you own me.”

“I do.”

Hair Beads nodded. “She told me the same thing when she arrived two days ago. And when that fuzzy-haired Trishelle tried to mess with me, she made sure Trishelle knew it, too.” Hair Beads snickered. “Trishelle walked out of the bathroom like she saw Jesus.”

“Isn’t Trishelle thirteen and taller than some adults here?” the boy asked while staring at Afro Puffs.

She stared stonily back at him without saying a word.

“That didn’t stop her from getting stomped.” Hair Beads mimicked wailing on the table. “So, I don’t mind being owned by someone who looks out for me without me asking. Cause everybody here is out for themselves. You should know that by now. I bet you won’t mind her looking out for you, either. Not after she puts whoever bothers you in their place.”

“B-b-but how old are you?”

“Five.” Afro Puffs goes back to eating her pasta as if she hadn’t dropped a bomb on the older boy.

“Me, too. Are you sure I can’t have one bite? Nobody’s watching.” Hair Beads inched her fork closer to the box, but a side-eye from Afro Puffs sent her back to her pasta.

Since the girls found nothing odd about adopting him, and with so much cake available, the boy decided he didn’t need to belabor the point. Instead, he turned to eating the birthday cake Afro Puffs gave him. Rather than shoveling the dessert into his mouth as fast as a speed eater at an eating competition would, he took small bites, smiling after swallowing each.

When he caught Afro Puffs staring, she jolted. “When my mom comes to get me, I’ll make sure she takes my people with us.” Her eyes widened in surprise as if she hadn’t meant to reveal her thoughts.

“She’s not coming back,” Hair Beads said. “She’s probably dead like the rest of our parents.”

“She’ll come for me, along with my daddy. I’m not supposed to be here.”

“How come you’re so sure? My mom never came back for me, and she promised,” the boy said.

Afro Puffs stared the two down. “Because these people stole me out of my daddy’s car when he and Mommy went into the store. And if they don’t come forme, I’m going to leave here and getthem. And I’m taking you with me.”

CHAPTER 2

GIRLS NIGHT OUT

Nadira

Adrilling sensation pierces through my brain, awakening me in agony. I clutch my head, curl into a ball, and try to breathe through the pain with gritted teeth. No matter how many years have passed, I’ll never get used to the crushing agony that visits me at random.

Nor do I understand the dreams preceding the intense suffering. The faces remain a blur and none of the visions are from my memories. Although I wouldn’t know if they were.

After my childhood accident, my memory was foggy for a couple years. Through rigorous training at the orphanage that took me in, I improved my recall. If I hadn’t shown progress, they would have stopped training me. Thankfully, my long-term memory wasn’t affected, but I had to live without remembering the first ten years of my life.

With tears trailing from my tightly closed lids, I count to ten, then thirty, then fifty. When I get to one hundred, the painbecomes a dulling throb, one I can manage. I sit up and reach for the glass of water and pain pills I keep beside the bed.

Leaper, my chestnut Sokoke cat, jumps onto the bed, rubs her head against my arm, and meows her concern. I hate that my headaches upset her this way. Besides her vocal distress, she drools when she’s anxious. I pick her up to cuddle until she begins to purr and her slobbering ceases.

The clock at my bedside reads seven, which means my alarm has yet to go off. I cancel it and get out of bed to ready myself for my monthly night out with the ladies. By the time we meet up, the pain will have disappeared or be manageable enough.

I stroll naked into my walk-in closet to select my outfit. A knitted cowl-neck cream dress, and a pair of suede, over-the-knee slouch boots fit my mood and the cool weather. To match my outfit, I select a wig with a side braid that falls below my hips. For jewelry, I go for the understated drop-thread dangling earrings. Once I put everything together and do my makeup, I stand in front of the full-length mirror to see the full effect.

Satisfied with the way the cream highlights the deep dark brown of my skin, I focus on the scar that starts under my wig and ends mid-cheek. My makeup does a good job of blending the scar tissue, but I’ll never be able to hide it. As glaring as it is, I’m grateful for it. I’m a tall, fat, Black woman with a facial deformity, so no one sees me. It’s a trait I’ve used to master my profession; the one people don’t know about.

I head out to the Say Yes lounge where my friends, Chelsea, Tamara, Moni, and Danae will meet me. For a Wednesday, the place is popping. Men and women fill the dance floor while dancing to popular R&B hits. A constant stream of people fill their orders at the bar. As I look around for my girls, a sensation causes the hair at my nape to stand up.

Discreetly, I glance to my left then right, seeking the eyes that have landed and lingered on me for too long. I don’t senseaggression, but I don’t like standing out. Standing out when I don’t intend to means I’m slipping. With my attention on finding my mysterious audience, I almost miss Chelsea rushing toward me in the darkest leather black cat suit I’ve ever seen. The material clings to every curve of her body, giving the men and women in the club reason to be heated.

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