Lordy, my connection is flakey.

Momma, I killed a man

The day before yesterday, I ran into the streets with my AK47, that old gun with the old blood stain in the corner, a series of scratches on the handle, foldback handle, and a brand new notch on the rust splattered barrel. I squeezed the trigger as I ran, my white robe chasing after me, jumping playfully into and out of the mud puddles on the street.

Fire flared from the snout, people screamed and ran from the streets, their terrified shouting seemed to be the echoes of my yells. I got myself a new set of prescription glasses recently, and I saw clearly as the American sitting on the top of the heavy sitting vehicle turned towards me with a shocked expression.

It was a young black man, and his expression was like that of a little boy who just realises that he just did something wrong. He started to swerve the machine gun he was sitting on towards me as I squeezed out 3 more bullets in his direction. I didn’t see the bullet hit him, I didn’t see him jerk. I saw him slide outwards, and drape across the top of the car.

Then the car jerked into motion, and I saw him start to slide gently off the car. Then I was in an alley, tucking my gun into my robe, and running.

As I ran through the narrow and muddy alley, I heard explosions and more gunshots. I heard the roar of a machinegun. I heard a mortar land and bang. The machine gun stopped. I also stopped, and bent over, gasping for air.

A lone rifle chattered in the background. After a few seconds of lonely firing, that last sound died out also. There was about a minute of utter silence, in which time I folded my legs, and sat myself down on a mat. Then the slow piping of a siren started.

I thought about that young black American, and thought about the letter his momma would get. Momma, I killed a man, my life begins today, Momma, your son got killed, your life ends today.