~Hakeem~
When Marci entered my life it was like a blind man seeing the sun, everything came into a different, more exciting, perspective. The flowers smelled like Marci’s hair being blown in the wind, the cool summer rain felt like Marci’s gentle hands caressing my bloodied back. The sweet sunlight tasted like Marci’s lips, she was everywhere while being nowhere at all. She influenced all of the things I did, I had just gotten paid from my part time job at the stables, a meager $1.50 a week, but that was enough to pamper Marci. I went to the bakery and florist’s (Their daughters were quite fond of me) so I got to pay 25 cents for a basket of rolls, 25 cents for a bouquet of carnations the color of Marci’s lips, 50 cents for some of the sweetest smelling soap I could find, and 50 cents for a box of chocolates. When I met Marci outside of our Sunday “school” ( The place where they make us get on our knees for an hour and a half and listen to then teach us how to pray and cleanse our mind, not fun. But I get most Sundays off so I spend every waking moment with Marci, Marci’s mother, Maggie, and Marci’s little brother Caleb, who turns 12 in 3 weeks, two days, 8 hours, 3 minutes, and 44 seconds (Last time I checked). As I was walking home with Marci, eating our rolls, smelling the sweet perfume from her flowers, and watching her eat her chocolate, she collapsed on the ground with a blood curdling scream, writhing in pain. I scoured for the assailants when an angry hornet whizzed past my ear, another past my arm, a third, barely missing my waist. I whip around, swinging my fists like a savage, I probably looked crazy, flailing my arms and legs, screaming my head off, dodging hornets. All of the sudden, my flank was searing with pain, as I scoured the road for our assailants I heard someone shout, “Stay off our land Negro!” In a childish voice, no more than 10 or 11. I conclude it wasn’t hornets at all, but inaccurately shot bullets from a gun, probably their father’s. I hear a yelp, look down and see Marci, covered with red dirt, thrashing about in pain. I pick her up, and run as fast as I can to her house, lock the door and lay her on the table. I wonder why she isn’t screaming, she was shot too, until I realize how much blood she lost, and how deep and painful her arm wound must be. I peer down, drunkenly, at my bloodied calf, for I have last a lot of blood as well. Although my wound is shallow, it is wide, dirty, and gushing blood. “Maggie!” I holler, “ Maggie! Please! Marci is dying!” I was sobbing now, I definitely didn’t want Marci to die and she was looking awfully pale. I was choking on sobs, sweat, and words. That heavy blackness wasn’t helping much either, pushing down on me, it felt like the world was on my shoulders. It finally crushed me, and the last words I remember saying were, “I love you, Marci.” Then the blackness swallowed me whole. ~Marci~
I had always thought Hakeem was a pushy, cocky, beautiful, amazing, and romantic person in general. Always leaving flowers at my doorstep, leaving baskets full of scrumptious sweets, homemade soaps, vegetables, fruits, fabrics, thread, and other goodies at my doorstep, or with my mother. Tucking love poems in my windowsill, throwing pebbles at my window, waking me up, and serenading me with original songs. Not to say I didn’t enjoy all of the glorious attention from my friends and family, and his spectacular voice, not to mention his good looks,