A Yellow T-Shirt

[Jett Wells]

Gray morning daylight peers inside the dim apartment with beaten walls and cold floorboards. An echoing hollow silence interrupts a family game of tag-your-it across the street. A tall man, 23, with a black hoodie opens the door, slamming it behind him in a stumbling hurry. Out of breath, tense with fear, he walks to through a dark narrow hallway leading to a windowless kitchen. Fists clenched, trembling breath, writhing pain.

 

A chip of dried blood flutters down onto his moving shadow as he stumbles into the kitchen looking for water. Dirty dishes are stacked, cupboards hang open and the salty smell of mildew and garbage stews in the room. His right fist is covered in red, wrapped with a stained and torn yellow t-shirt. Lurching toward the faucet, the man unwraps his right clenched fist slowly, shaking, turning on hot water with his left hand. The warm water vapor brushes against the man’s wide-open eyes, so he can finally blink again. His breaths get deeper and slower.

 

The fridge behind him clicks on, humming, re-starting it’s cooling cycle. He places his blood covered hand under the water, stretching his fingers erectly, washing away the filth as goose bumps ride down his body from the back of his neck down to his worn legs. He spits into the sink as he washes his hand clean, revealing a hand swollen but no broken skin. A wide-eyed look of disbelief presses against his skull. Exhausted, he slumps down to the floor, knees collapsing, leaning against the lower cupboards, falling to sleep.

 

Two hours later, the fridge turns off, humming stops.

 

Clump, clump, clump. His short, robust roommate, Adam, 23, enters the kitchen from the entrance, casually dragging his feet onto the pasty tiles. His yellow and brown rugby shirt looks too big for him. He glances around the kitchen and drops his eyes to the floor, noticing Nick asleep on the floor.

 

“Hey Nick, wake up. There’s someone….”

 

He notices the bloody t-shirt thrown on the counter.

 

“Dude, are you hurt?”

 

Still curled in a ball on the ground, Nick cracks his eyes open looking first at his hand then at Adam. Once he sees the t-shirt, he awakens in a rush of anxiety. Casually, he picks himself up and rubs his hands against a towel that should’ve been washed weeks ago.

 

“No, I’m fine.”

 

“What’s with the shirt, and why were you sleeping in our skanky kitchen?”

 

“Bloody nose, I guess, and I don’t remember.”

 

Again Adam glances at the t-shirt, skeptically, and raises his eyebrows. He also notices Nick’s fidgeting right hand.

 

“Where were you last night?”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Who’s at the door?”

 

“Your girl.”

 

Nick loses blood from his face. His pulse picks up, pumping blood so hard it sounds like a 50-foot giant is tapping the roof in a steady beat with his fat index finger. Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom. With no time to waste, Nick looks at the bloody (now quite stinky) t-shirt, grabs it and shuttles to his bed room and stuffs into his closet filled with dirty clothes, used CD cases and moth balls. He grabs his black pea coat, and shoves his (now puffy) right hand into a pocket, leaving his left to grab his pack of Camel Lights as he marches to the front door. He can see her through the windows by the door. She looks upset.

 

Nick counts to three in his head, and then cracks the door open.

 

The outside begins as a blinding white light, morphing into the dreary-colored afternoon he sees everyday. She’s pacing left and right on the porch with wet eyes of conviction.

 

“He’s hurt. He’s really hurt.”

 

“What’s wrong, Amanda? Are you okay? Who’s hurt?”

 

“Kevin! He’s in the ICU.”

 

Nick stares at her and lights a cigarette. A gust of wind makes the floorboards on the porch creak.

 

“What happened to him?” he says with a blank gaze.

 

“Why do you sound so nonchalant? He’s in a fucking coma, Nick! The police found him beat to hell in the park, dangling from an oak tree by his shoulders.”

 

“Do you know what color shirt he was wearing?” Nick asks while grabbing the inside of his jacket with his hidden right hand.

 

Amanda blinks twice and rubs her left bicep while staring down at her shoes

 

“He wasn’t wearing one. I’m so scared. They don’t know if he’s going to wake up.”

 

Nick sees Kevin being dragged by the ankles screaming through a piece of duct tape over his mouth. ‘Why are you doing this?!’ he tried to yell out with his wrists tied behind him.

 

“Why do you care so much?” Nick sneers at Amanda.

 

She steps backward. A crow on a sad tree calls out to high noon.

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“I’m saying why do you give a shit about that scumbag after what he did to you?!” Nick snaps.

 

“He was a different person that night—that look in his eyes. I’ve told you this already! You know he’s not well. He’s sick, Nick.”

 

“’He’s sick, Nick. He’s sick, Nick.’ Enough already! That’s what you keep telling me, but it doesn’t make it any more right, Amanda. They guy’s a pig. You should’ve turned him in, but instead he’s not thinking twice about it, ready to do it again someone else. You want that on your conscience?”

 

Amanda glares at Nick with heated contempt.

 

“It doesn’t matter much now does it?” Amanda utters.

 

It’s last night and Kevin’s strapped to the oak tree with his own belt, shirtless. The left side of his face is swollen and discolored, bleeding from the noise and mouth. Welts are peppered across his pounding chest. Darkness shrouds the silent park. A lone street lamp hovers five feet from the oak tree, illuminating Kevin’s crucifixion as he hangs with a heavy head and dispassionate whimpers. A dark figure emerges from the blackness and into the light facing Kevin. “Why did you do it?” the man asked Kevin. He strips the duct tape off Kevin’s face, causing him to belt out and scream. “HELP ME!! SOMEBODY!!” Slam. Another blow to the head. “How could you leave her bruised and bleeding alone at that party? How could you?! You say loved her, you piece of shit.”

 

“I did love her, and I still do. I would never intentionally try to hurt her! What I did was unforgivable and I can’t, no I won’t live it down. You can’t know the number of times I’ve just wanted to disappear and end it out of the pain of reliving the experience. I don’t blame you for hating me…just please, don’t kill me,” Kevin trembles.

 

“Now you know what it’s like to truly feel helpless, Kevin,” Nick calmly utters while merging from the darkness wiping his bloody fist with a yellow t-shirt. “Cherish it.”

 

The dark figure lifts a thick branch in the hair and thrusts it down into the pouring light.