Selfless ploy
Earlier in the evening I heard shouts in the streets, cars moving fast, and gun shots loud enough to pierce even a hearty night...and this is not one.
A moment before, I heard a woman screaming. I thought to myself, "I'd never leave that for the neighborhood watch if I knew I was somewhere other than the ghetto. I wouldn't let a woman scream like that and have it go unnoticed...unanswered." I felt guilty for a bit and then I heard it again and I couldn't do anything to stop myself from steeling myself against what might occur.
She could be in a domestic quarrel, not the victim.
She could be anything..I don't know...some crack head mad she didn't get what she wanted.
But barefoot and braless I stormed out my front door to find out the source of this blood curdling scream, and I walked onto my porch--saw nothing.
My view is obscured by the stoops that curl onto the avenue while mine culls back into the alley.
I stomped out in a rage, ready to face whatever I might have to face
and then I promptly slipped and fell down the stairs.
Too many shots of vodka.
So I sat on the stairs, as if I had tried to sit there in the first place. It was a ploy I knew no one would believe but because of the empathetic embarrassment for others they would go along with. Then, after a minute or two, hearing nothing save the cars up and down the boulevard, I walked back in.
Now at least I don't feel guilty.
A moment before, I heard a woman screaming. I thought to myself, "I'd never leave that for the neighborhood watch if I knew I was somewhere other than the ghetto. I wouldn't let a woman scream like that and have it go unnoticed...unanswered." I felt guilty for a bit and then I heard it again and I couldn't do anything to stop myself from steeling myself against what might occur.
She could be in a domestic quarrel, not the victim.
She could be anything..I don't know...some crack head mad she didn't get what she wanted.
But barefoot and braless I stormed out my front door to find out the source of this blood curdling scream, and I walked onto my porch--saw nothing.
My view is obscured by the stoops that curl onto the avenue while mine culls back into the alley.
I stomped out in a rage, ready to face whatever I might have to face
and then I promptly slipped and fell down the stairs.
Too many shots of vodka.
So I sat on the stairs, as if I had tried to sit there in the first place. It was a ploy I knew no one would believe but because of the empathetic embarrassment for others they would go along with. Then, after a minute or two, hearing nothing save the cars up and down the boulevard, I walked back in.
Now at least I don't feel guilty.