"Make sure you come back with change. I know you be spending my damn money on candy, and if you do that shit again I'll hit you upside that damned big head a yours!! And take this here basket and pick me some leaves for the horses. Don't waste no time on em streets darkie" The old man threw the basket to the small boy. That was the warning that Cyrus Bailey got from his grandfather, who was sending him to the shop to buy his daily dose of cigarettes.
For the hundredth time that day.
"Well it isn't the hundredth time. It's more like the fifth time. But it may as well be a Hundred.." he mumbled under his breath.
"Darn, smokey cigarette head, butt headed butt head. Hope he chokes on one of em cigs.." Cyrus complained, kicking the air.
"What'd ya say boi???"
"Nothing Sir" Cryus ran straight through the door before his grandfather hit him from mumbling again, running with the jingles of change in his pocket.
The boy swore that he had never seen somebody smoke as much as he saw his grandfather did, especially when his friends Billy, Ray and Tom Tom came to join him in the afternoons', to further fuel the debauchery on his patio.
"The man blows up 10 boxes a Newport every day!!Every single day. I wish Pa didn't leave me with him. He can be so cruel..." he muttered, one hand rubbing his heated behind form the clapping he got before. That slab of wood was a hard thing to beat a soft bottom with.
Cyrus was a 9-year-old boy, living in the deepest parts of the south with his grandfather, and his grandmother. At only 3 months old, Cyrus's widowed father decided that he couldn't handle the pain of his wife's death during childbirth, he hated how much his son looked like his deceased mother.
So one rainy summer day in August, he came with the baby wrapped up in a blanket, telling his father to hold his baby while he went to the tire shop to pump up a spare wheel.
He never came back.
Now Cyrus was stuck being a slave to his mean, dirty, tobacco spittin, rum drinking racist grandfather who would beat him nonstop, for the most minuscule reasons. Sending him out to Joe's to buy a thousand cigs every minute of the day, barking at him to feed the cows, clean the pig pens, feed the hens, and do whatever else there was on the farm.
If the boy didn't wash his grandfathers' clothes, iron them, make him his breakfast, clean his boots, clip his dirty fungus ridden toenails, and a whole list of other stuff; he would've gotten stripped down naked, soaked in oil and pelted with the itchy bush vines that the bastard made sure to soak in vinegar. Cryus' back was filled with scars.
And now, here he was going to Joe's bar for the hundredth time to get cigs.
"I'll show him. One day, I'm gonna have my own farm and its gone be ten times bigga den his!! I'l take care of all my cows and my pigs, and I'll grow veg and sell em and I'll make way more money than he ever made!" the slender boy swung his arms as he briskly walked down the sidewalk, an empty woven basket tucked underneath his arm. He placed his hand above his head to cover his face from the sun, that was coming back out now.
It warmed his skin, the heat drying his puffy, 4c coiled hair. His grandmother loved it when he wore his hair out more, instead of shoving it underneath that hot, black cap the old bark gave him to wear all the time. He was also wearing an airy red pleated shirt she gave him for his birthday; he rubbed the elbows of his arms and hugged himself, thinking about how much he appreciated anything that she gave to him.
Granny Jen was the only thing that gave him hope, that made him feel like he was something more. She loved him, and he would do anything for her. In truth, she was the only reason he was still alive.
"When I get rich, I'm gonna take granny Jen and we can live on my big farm together. And he won't ever be allowed on that farm. Ever!!!!" The thought of never having to see that wicked old miser again pumped him with happiness, the boy face lit up from corner to corner, he laughed boisterously, sliding his worn-out sneakers across the side of the fence as he moonwalked. He spun around, standing on his toes for a second and making noises, getting back on his feet and running away because he couldn't hold himself up as long as Michael Jackson did. He took off, darting down the sidewalk with his arms outstretched, one free the basket in the next, stomping his foot down on the concrete sidewalk as made his way to Joe's bar, he looked down at his feet for a second; and as he was about to put his foot down he saw something below it.
"Wait wait wait!!Wooww" it was something that looked like a tiny animal, he couldn't tell what it was but it was too late, His foot was coming down and he couldn't stop it, but he didn't want to crush the poor thing. So in a split second he thought fast, grabbing the wooden fence to his side and gripping it tightly, drawing up his foot. He slid, feet opened wide apart as his backside slammed against the hard concrete sidewalk, the basket rolling away into the street.
"Ouch..." he murmured to himself, rubbing the back of his head and dusting off his arms. He looked up to see what it was that made him trip.
He got up, holding on to the fence to push himself off; standing up straight he dusted the dirt off of his pants, and then he looked down.
It was a small, furry little thing about the size of a Hamster. He squinted his eyes and looked carefully, seeing that it wasn't a hamster; it was a rat.
The tiny thing twitched spasmodically, its legs kicking out along with its arms, its white tummy stained with bruises and blood.
The thing looked like a complete wreck; its fur was tousled as if it was thrown about, it was covered in blood and it looked stiff; its hands were close to its face, frozen in place.
"Hmmmm.." the boy had wondered what the rat had gone through to have suffered in this way. Maybe a cat had his way with him. Maybe a vehicle almost ran over him. No. Impossible, he would be flattened, he thought.
Cyrus squatted down, right above the rat, finding the nearest stick and poking it into its belly, gently. He poked once, nothing. He poked again, nothing.
"My next small catch" the boy got a whisper from intuition, so he decided to put a tiny finger over the rats nose. He felt warm air coming through it.
"Your still alive!" he said, excited. The rat started to twitch again, flies beginning to come over and pester it. The boy fanned off the flies, getting up and going for his basket.
"I've got you mousey. I'm gonna put you to good use" The boy took a napkin out of his pocket and gently wrapped it around the mouse, taking up its body and putting it into his basket, softly. Cryus stuffed the woven basket under his arm, looking around and continuing on his way.
He strolled down the street, proud of his new catch.
A mongoose popped its head out of the fence, following behind the boy carefully as he went on his way.