And again.
The sound was brutal. Visceral. The kind of sound that made your stomach turn and your heart race at the same time.
I looked down at Destiny, still on the ground, still bleeding, still crying.
And I felt nothing.
No guilt.
No regret.
Just satisfaction.
By now, the whole block had come out.
Miss Claudette from next door was standing on her porch with her arms crossed, shaking her head but smiling.
Mr. Jerome from across the street was leaning against his car, a beer in his hand, watching like this was pay-per-view.
The kids on bikes had stopped to stare.
This was entertainment.
This was justice.
This was the Seventh Ward.
Phillip finally managed to crawl away, his face a mess of blood and tears, his body shaking.
Destiny scrambled to her feet and ran after him.
They stumbled back to the car, Phillip’s hands shaking so bad he could barely get the door open.
Destiny was sobbing, her face ruined, her hair a mess.
The engine roared to life.
The tires screeched as Phillip peeled out, the car fishtailing down the street before disappearing around the corner.
The block went quiet.
Then Mama started clapping.
“Nowthat’sa real man right there,” she said, looking at Amai. “That’s the kind of man you need, baby. One who don’t let nobody disrespect you.”
Amai was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, his knuckles bloody, his belt still in his hand.
He looked at me.
And I looked back.
“You good?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”
He wiped the blood off his hands with his shirt, then looped his belt back through his pants.
“Good,” he said.
