Words in Frame, 7/8

This was it, he was going to die.

He came to facedown on the concrete on a 70 degree day, Jordan never thought his hometown would become his coffin. He was still a bit fuzzy on the details as to why, but he could feel warm blood slowly dripping down his face. How did he get here?

“Stop resisting! Stay on the ground!” a distant voice shouts down at him.

This doesn’t make any sense, he didn’t remember doing anything. He was trying to trace the steps backward in his mind. He went to 7/11 to pick up some drinks for him and his friends. Shit, they must be waiting for him back at the arcade. He tried to get up but could only flop around on the ground powerless. Was he tased? He still couldn’t remember.

“I need backup! I think this is the guy!” The distant voice becomes louder and clearer.

Drumming. He was a drummer, and was air playing along to some ScHoolboy Q song. His earphones were in as he walked out of the store so he couldn’t hear the cop approach him. He saw the sirens but police aren’t exactly a rare sight in Oakland. Then he saw the cop mouthing something. It was him. They wanted him. He quickly pulled the buds out of his ear and attempted to put his hands up, but that was too fast for their liking. There was a quick bash to the head with a billy club before he fell limp on the pavement, out before he could even ask what he had done wrong.

“What is wrong, what did I do? What is going on?” words were slurred and stumbling lazily out of Jordan’s mouth before turning into mumbles somewhere in the process.

“Shut up and stay down!” at this point the cop was on top of him, waiting for his much needed backup.

And it came. In the form of two more cars and 3 more cops. More yelling and screaming and more body shots. Jordan could feel himself fading in and out of blackness, trying his hardest to hold himself together. He needed to remember this, this was his city and he needed to defend its pride. He did nothing wrong and he won’t let them win. 21 years of resentment fueled his rage and kept him awake. It remembered every hit they gave him. It remembered every name they called him. It remembered all the times these situations ended in death, and prevented him from lashing out.

A crowd had started to gather, phones were being taken out, and support was being given from the citizens who had seen this far too often.

“Leave that boy man, he ain’t done nothing wrong!” one voice cried

“Why does it take three cops to hold down one guy, he isn’t even resisting!” another saint spoke truth.

“He comes here all the time; he has never given me an issue officer!” This came from the owner of the store, Howard. He had known Jordan as a customer since high school.

Jordan was broken hearted and soon to be broken bodied. This city knew what love meant but it didn’t matter in the face of these cops. They were getting anxious with the crowd's presence and that was a bad sign. When they tried to throw him into the back of the cop car one of the cops dropped him, and he stumbled to catch himself from falling into the pavement again. He managed to put his hands on top of the car and stopped himself from falling, but they saw this as resisting. 

Shots rang out.

He wondered what the video would look like on the news that night. How his death would be twisted and warped to fit their narrative. Would his mother be blamed in some way? Would his friends be called thugs and hooligans? Would they find another way to tear this city apart? There were screams and he could hear cries out outrage. He never wanted to be another body for the cause, but he never had the choice to begin with.

…

He woke up 7 hours later in Highland Hospital, connected to machines and surrounded by friends and family. They were all crying, hold his hand, grieving. Yet when his eyes opened they didn’t stop crying. He was one of the lucky few, he had survived, a miracle in itself that could make even the most hardened inner city veteran break down with relief. In silence a TV was turned to a local news station, there was footage of a savage beat down the result in what was being called a case of “Potential Mistaken Identity”. He was on display for the world to see, abused by the system that is destroying his people and his community.

No more.

His mother, who had finally stopped crying, turned to him and asked him in the most calm manner possible, “How are you doing?”

His voice was hoarse and it hurt to speak, but he pushed through 250 years of pain to make his statement clear.

“I’m pissed, and they won’t get away with it this time”.

He lay in bed surrounded by his support system, ready to jump head first into the revolution.