“Don’t you say one word.”

Ivan Long’s voice is a menacing, low, growl that passes through the cell’s bars to penetrate his son’s ears.

Mr. Long turns from his son and his entire image dissolves into one of solemn placation. James drops his hand from the rusty metal bars and backs up into the shadows of the cell. The backs of his knees hit something hard, a bench, and he sits, his hands clasped between his knees and his head ducked in exhaustion. He can hear them - his father and Officer Martin. His father is trying to convince the officer to let him go. The officer is telling him of all the reasons he shouldn’t.

Their voices fade and images flash through his head. He’s with a group of people, a rolled up blunt is passed around, a bottle of gin sloshes from hand to hand. The smell of weed hangs over them all, the scent of intoxicated bodies even heavier. Candace’s hands are on his chest, in his hair, her lips touching his skin… And it all fills his mind like a dense fog.

He’s lost sense of time with the throb of an oncoming migraine, but eventually his cell is slid open. Officer Martin stands to the side pursing his lips as he holds the gate open. His father’s large frame fills the open space as he gestures for him to come out.

“I can’t thank you enough, Officer.”
The officer is short with his response, grudging. As far as he was concerned, he deserved to face the consequences of his actions. What he didn’t know was that he already was. He never stopped.
“Just make sure he’s in court on Friday, Mr. Long.”
He feels no better once he’s out of the cell. After several hours, his hangover is beginning to take affect and he’s feeling overheated. He’s thankful for the fresh air once they exit the county jail, but he’s soon caged in the warmth of his father’s black Lexus. It’s stifling, so he presses his forehead against the cool glass as his father strides around the vehicle. His hard, steady approach is ripe with the seething heat of his rage.
Words are withheld during the ride home, making the raging silence between them tense and uncomfortable, but this was no different than any other day for James. He stared with blank eyes out into the night until the blur of trees and street lamps became too much. He closed his eyes too, and became numb to everything. It was what he’d learned to do when it came to his father.

~*~

When they arrive home, he lets rip and his mother cradles her head.
“James, please calm down. It’s been an awful night for everyone.”
“No, Nina! I’m sick of it; I did not raise my son to be like this – a typical black American, f*ing around with drugs and gangs. Bringing whatever inkling of respect a decent man may have for them to dust. That is not my son. That is not who you are!”
“You don’t know who I am. And I’m done with you acting like you do.”
Whatever his father had to say after that he tuned out as his feet began to carry him up the staircase. His father stood at the bottom hollering up at him, spitting cuss words and violence and spite. James continued onto his room and shut the door. He didn’t bother to lock it because he knew something as miniscule as that couldn’t stop Ivan Long when in a rage.
He dragged his feet to his bed, stripping himself of his shoes and clothes as he did before he collapsed. Moments after, he hit the bed he was out cold.
What seemed like a second later, he was rolling over onto his side and daylight was prying at his eyelids. The time flashed on his alarm clock: 11:51. Both parents were gone at work. It was their daily routine, interrupted on occasion by some event or another, but never changing, always consistent.
He drew himself into a seated position, planting his feet on the floor. He picked up his phone, dialed and waited.
“Hello?”
“Candace... It’s me.”
“Oh, hey, sunshine! You have fun last night? We should do it again sometime.”
He groaned, “My head disagrees… I’m coming by.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, so be ready.”
“If you say so.”
Just like his mother and father, he too had a routine. Never changing, always consistent.