Off My Back

“The hell were you thinking!” John yelled, rising to his full height to tower over me. The kitchen grew smaller, almost as though he was filling it with his bulk.
         “Back the fuck off,” I growled, my left hand behind me on the counter, holding my weight. He had no idea, not even a hint of the thoughts that were running through my head. I’d been looking for a fight all night.
         “Nonono, you listen to me, you little piece of shit. You have until I reach three to get your ass out of that door and never come back before I make you fucking bleed.” He took a step towards me, close enough that the whiskey on his breath stung my nostrils. I didn’t budge. “Got it?” My chest was on fire with rage. This isn’t what you’re looking for, I told myself. But nothing, I knew, would keep me calm.
         “That was MY choice. MINE. Fucking deal with it and get off my back.” He wasn’t the one I wanted to fight, but if I had to, I wouldn’t think twice.
         “One.”
         My heart raced. My field of view narrowed until all I could see with the tunnel vision was that hulking spawn of Satan.
         “Two.”
         My fists tightened and my jaw clenched. I could feel the blood pumping through my arms and legs. My body was begging for it. It had needed this for 17 years, and now that the opportunity was right up front, it was reveling in the moment.
         “Three.”
John was a big man. Six foot three and a lean two-twenty, he wasn’t someone to fuck with. And to be fair, I wasn’t. But that wasn’t going to stop anything that was about to come. From his right shoulder, I watched him launch the hook almost in slow motion. Four meaty, hair-covered knuckles were set to crash into the side of my face in an instant. A week ago, they’d have ended me, crushed me where I stood, sent me into a broken heap on the cold tile under my feet. But it wasn’t a week ago. I was a man of my own convictions now, and I was ready to fight for them. Tonight, there would be blood.
         The bigger man overbalanced and nearly toppled when his fist connected with nothing but the air over my head.
         The sound started as a growl. It turned into a gurgle when I hit him in the throat. Then a wheeze when I cracked him in his ribs. And finally a gasp when I snatched the knife off the counter behind me and slammed it into his sternum. He looked down at the handle sticking out from his chest. He looked confused, even frustrated that his lungs weren’t working, but the scowl, the raw hatred, never left his face. He stumbled back a step as his legs threatened to give out, but then his knees buckled, and he toppled like a felled tree. He died with malice in his eyes and a snarl on his lips, but it was an empty mask. The anger was gone; these were just the scars it left behind.
         With twenty dollars in my pocket, keys in my hand, and gas in my tank, I drove away from that place. I drove as fast and as far as I could. But no matter how much distance I put between myself and that kitchen, and no matter how much time I put between myself and that night, the feeling lingered. It was a combination of victory and fear, freedom and doom. Nothing would ever fade that memory of the night I killed my dad. All because I fucked a black girl. To this day, I couldn’t tell you with any certainty which one it was that truly set me free.