Guns don't kill people; People kill people. (creative short story piece)

 The shadowed cherry wood was cool against me. The space, pitch black except a creek of dim light that broke the darkness and shinned on the spot next to me. There was nothing beside me but a few old buttons and loose change. His house was quiet, too quiet for a summer night.There was no talking or interactions being made. I just remember a constant yet extremely muffed blare of an audience laughing on some late- night talk show on the television in the living room.
   Hours must have passed by...then angry. No, furious stomps up the stairs, like beats on a drop shook the house. A door swung open slamming viciously at the wall. He riffled through the room in search of something... me? When he stepped in front I saw him, sweaty and soaked with tears. He had a gash out of his face. When he saw me he reached for me and tucked me  underneath his belt buckle. I could tell by his hysteric panting and trembling he was now carrying on with nothing but pure adrenalin. The boy didn't want to return back to the gang fight. But he knew he had to defend his own. The boy wanted his mother.
  By now we were turning corners and running down side streets. After a while I lost track of all the left and right turns we had made, All the ducking and squatting behind cars, and all the gun shots tired. All of a sudden a loud cry, a cry like no other ever heard came from across the street. Anthony soon recognized the cry. The same cry once let out by a boy named Patrick let out at his fathers funeral six years ago. Anthony stood up behind the car, reached for me, cocked me, and bang... bang... bang, started firing off random shots. No aim at all. The three boys fled the scene around the same time that the cops we raising around the corners and driving up on lawns. Anthony ran to his friend who was now lying in the middle of an intersection screaming for help and for his mother, a slim, soulful, woman who cooked everything in butter and sang church hips as she gardened. The boy feel his knees, his head flew back and his fists tightened  He swung his arms up and beat them at the ground. His childhood best friend was gone, possibly slipped into a different life or on the way to heaven. But just gone in Anthony's eyes.
  The constant abandonment was too much for the sixteen year-old to handle. He not only cried for Tony, he cried for his mother who past away from cancer only about a year ago. He cried for his little sister who had received the wrong kind of loving from her daddy at an early age and was then taken away from the family. Anthony cried for his ward and their struggle.
  The cops approached the boy and bent him over against the police car and sternly jammed his wrists in hand cuffs. The cops treated him like a delinquent, not like a human being.



Written by: Grace R.G. Keller