Abolition

Chapter Fifteen

I love swinging.

I've always loved it. The whoosh of wind in my ears, the arch of the movement, being able to propel myself without needing someone to push me. When I figured out how to pump my legs so that my movement could be self-sustaining, it'd been a revelation. One of the big ones, too, where the clouds part and the sun shines directly on you as a choir sings in the distance.

The tree that my swing is attached to is tall and big, branches spreading out as well as up. This is about as far away from downtown Denver as I can get—the only building I can see is a small house nearby in the middle of a field of yellowing grass. Two men stand on the deck of the house, keeping a careful eye on Mama and I.

My mama's laughter is like wind chimes as she pushes me though she knows I don't need the help, and I strive to climb higher and higher. "Kirk!" she eventually says, alarmed at my ambition, and I reluctantly heed her warning. The lines on the ground, running through the grass towards the house, gradually become less of a blur beneath me.

She hugs me from behind when I come to a complete stop. "You're an adrenaline junkie, Kirk," she says, ruffling the sandy brown hair I got from her, and my seven year old mind doesn't really know what that means but there are more pressing matters.

The lines. I've been noticing them more lately; they're everywhere, and they don't go away. I chew on my lip before coming to a decision. "Mama?"

Her arms are tight around me and and her chest is warm at my back. "Yeah, baby?"

"Why are there lines on the ground?"

Her arms tense up uncomfortably. "Baby boy, what do you mean?"

I should stop. I should stop right now and ask her if she wants to play hide and go seek, or if she wants to start pushing me again. I. Should. Stop. But I didn't stop talking then, and I don't now. "There are these—lines, on the ground. They run ahead of us like train tracks. Mine's pink, your's is white. Yours sticks out of the grass the most. They mix together when I'm going really fast on the swing."

My mama breaks the hug but keeps a gentle hand on my shoulder as she moves to kneel in front of me, brushing errant strands of hair out of my eyes before looking right into them. "Kirk, I need you to listen to me, okay?"

I nod, trying really hard not to blink even though my eyes get itchy. This is obviously something important, and I'm not going to miss it because I blinked.

"Kirk, baby, you can't tell anybody about those lines. Do you understand?"

A million and a half questions fly to the tip of my tongue but I manage to push them aside. "Yes, Mama."

"Do you promise?"

Of course I do. I'd promise my Mama the moon if I could get it down.

She smiles, but it's not the radiant one of a few minutes ago. It's soft now. Almost...sad. "Alright, baby boy. Let's go have some ice cream, yeah?"

I cheer, clambering my way out of the swing, but before I can turn around to see if she's following me somebody is shaking my shoulder and I am awake.

The room is dark, a stark contrast to the bright field that my dream had put me in, and I'm lying on something horizontal and flat and not terribly comfortable. My head hurts, my neck aches, and the pain in my elbow is dull. Somebody is talking to me.

"What's your name?"

I blink once, hard. The shaking is making me dizzy.

"What is your name?" the person asks again.