No.83: I Saw an Angel of Death. He Was Four Years Old.
right now there's a four-year-old white kid in a museum
lock-and-loading an empty (hopefully) rifle with soldier speed.
he knows how to load a magazine.
a middle-aged white woman cheers on
his mechanic motions.
the boy smiles. this is fun. this is a show. this is a game. he's been trained. he's efficient. death comes easy to him. like breathing. don't treat him like a toddler. he is four. he is a trooper. he is adorable. he is a man-to-be. Tamir didn't make it to thirteen. had a toy gun. Shareef has never touched a weapon, but today, "terrorist" will be spewed at him on his way to work. yet the only thing that terrifies me. is the kid. his speed. the grin between his cheeks. we are thugs and jihadists and 6'1 and ex-convicts. but he. he just needs some mental help is all. he was just bullied is all. he's actually a good kid. but he has examples. angels of death. all of them pale-skinned like him. all of them disturbed like him. all of them ready to merc the whole class. the whole mall. the whole church. the whole world. 'cause they can.
Cover Photo by xandtor on Unsplash