The night the Rhymer went whack

47

Within seconds of seeing him hobbling she rushed and shouldered his arm.

Straffe’s pain was as obvious as his determination; he had to see Sharissa, he had to tell her the truth. She awed at how much this meant to him, the risk he was taking and how he, of all people, had witnessed the decay of society and now he was guided by a sliver of hope, a light that could bring this world out of darkness. But that sliver had now been led astray and must be reignited back on its rightful course, hence his trek that led him to this moment. Still in danger and vulnerable out in the mean streets, they quickened their pace, back to Sharissa’s condo.

He sat at her kitchen table already having had marveled at how well she soundproofed her place. She noticed his attention toward it as she patted his head, tending to his wounds. “It really helps,” she responded as she reached for more gauze. “We need to find him. I’m scared,” she said as she stared Straffe in his eyes before continuing to nurse him.

He looked away, his mind on why he was really making this trip. He stayed silent. “I’ve seen him do evil things. And with no remorse. Almost like he was enjoying it,” she barked, getting more frustrated with each word that brought those memories to life. She couldn’t control her emotions. She started to cry and collapsed in the chair. Still, Straffe sat unspeaking. She was probably used to this since her son had gone so many years without words, so she couldn’t decipher if Straffe’s silence was indifference or his mind being elsewhere. “He reminds me of Reshod,” she stated, wiping her tears and reaching for a tissue. She blew her nose, wiped her hands clean and continued to address Straffe’s wounds.

The silence lasted for minutes, becoming unbearable as each had something to say but didn’t know how or where to begin. Straffe cleared his throat, his words trying to exit, but he choked them back before reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out some old photos.

Sharissa gasped, covering her mouth, embracing the chance to see her love once again. Having had no photos herself, she held her face in her hands before gingerly taking the pictures. “Oh my God,” she exhaled as a few tears from a different emotion streaked down her cheeks. She repeated it again, this time with a slight smile on her face. Straffe gave her a moment, stalling the inevitable. “I forgot how lush his hair was. And oh, those dark eyes and thick eyebrows,” she recalled.

She studied the pictures and stepped away into the living room leaving Straffe alone with his thoughts. His hesitancy was stressing him so he summoned the courage to follow her and rose out of his chair, but he stumbled, his leg was badly wounded. Sharissa heard the commotion and rushed back to assist. “I’m so sorry,” she exclaimed, helping him to sit back down. “How are you feeling,” she asked, refocusing her attention to Straffe’s wounds. She rubbed his arms then once again changed the bloody gauze on his face all while Straffe stared distantly. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. I have so many questions and I—”

Straffe grabbed her hand firmly as she was about to change the dressing. He paused and took a deep breath before he turned and faced her head on, providing her with his full undivided attention, requesting for her to do the same. “There’s so much I need to tell you. I thought everyone was dead,” Straffe stated before he staggered up and hugged her to calm his nerves. “We lost everything, everyone. I was done. Done with it all, willing to die!”

But she was half paying attention to his words and didn’t reciprocate his embrace. She too had much to tell him, much to ask specifically. Since she last saw him, she had replayed everything regarding what led them to escape. She played it over in her head a million times wondering if she’d ever get the chance to ask him what had been on her mind precisely.

As the years faded, she thought of it less, but it never escaped her memory. She needed the answer and she needed it now. She envisioned anger, grabbing his arms and demanding an honest response but looking at his frailty, she just simply asked. “Why did you let Reshod into the compound?” Although she wanted and waited years for an answer, she quickly regretted asking. Straffe looked every bit of the seventy five years his age and that demand quickly added ten more. She saw it pained him, his withered and frail body, and she thought of the strength it must’ve taken for him to attempt to come see her. But Reshod raped her and destroyed her happiness. “Why?” she demanded.

And Straffe knew that if he ever saw Sharissa again that this question was inevitable. He had practiced his answer, and actually, that’s why he had brought the pictures of Dashet. He needed closure from the both of them, so he gently removed the picture from her hands and stared into Dashet’s dark truthful eyes, took a deep breath and began his story, the truth must be told.