It was a dark, cold, cold night. My master’s index finger shouldn’t have ordered me out my chamber. Evil was brewing; murder was spewing bad vibes and I was the messenger sent out to execute–literary. I shot out with a fury and punched the first thing I saw. I killed the first thing in front of me. I later learned his name—Trayvon Benjamin Martin. He was just a boy and as far as ‘buts’ go, I was but a lone bullet let out too soon, too quickly in a throes of fury. I killed Trayvon Martin. I shot him dead.
The deadness of the night should have warned me that something was wrong. The cold pavement should have tapped me on the shoulder and told me to head east, head west, head anywhere but straight through the chest of one proud brave boy, caught in the dance of death, a novice in the martial art, a babe in the woods; I tore through a terrified chest and red graffiti tattooed the cold, cold pavement in a spatter of emotion.
He was but a babe in the woods, newly weaned from his mom’s boob, with Skittles stuck between his teeth, a lazy smile arrested at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were frozen in confusion, his limbs frantic a moment too late. The poor cold pavement was unqualified in the art of comfort, he motioned to hold me back but I was too far gone, too invested in the task at hand, my ears deadened to his cries for help. I beckoned my master for help and look he did, but that’s all he did, incapacitated as a slab of concrete. The boy was too far gone and I couldn’t back out now. I was tagged a murderer the day I was born and was only fulfilling the prophesy.
I killed Trayvon Martin, I snuffed out his life. The drumbeats that sounded fainter and fainter as the seconds ticked by welcomed him to the afterlife. I looked to my master when it was done and knew I wouldn’t be getting pats on the shoulder for a job well done. He looked at me guiltily and his racing heart told me he was ashamed of me, my quick temper, the power of my punch, my lethal head-butt. I was branded a murderer and Zimmerman the innocent victim. Who speaks for the boy now—who speaks for the boy?