Chapter 2 - THE GREEN SHIELD
The slap of rubber soles against hardwood floorboards interrupted the crying.
The footsteps were frantic, uneven, skidding around the corner of the hallway.
A boy rushed into the frame of the kitchen doorway.
His green button-up shirt was untucked, the fabric twisting around his narrow torso.
His chest heaved, pulling the cheap cotton tight against his ribs.
His dark brown hair stuck up in unruly clumps, still flattened on one side from a recent nap.
He saw the red sauce.
He saw the yellow dress trembling.
He saw the maroon cardigan looming like a dark, heavy storm cloud.
He didn't slow down.
His sneakers squeaked violently against the polished marble tile as he lunged forward.
He threw his small body directly between the kitchen island and the old woman.
His shoulder slammed into his sister’s hip.
He wrapped his thin arms tightly around her waist, burying his face into the side of her sauce-stained dress.
He didn't care about the red stains seeping into his green shirt.
He didn't care about the heat of the food transferring to his own skin.
He squeezed his eyes shut and locked his fingers together behind her back.
He turned his head sharply, exposing his neck to the old woman.
His chin tilted upward, his small jaw thrust forward like a jagged piece of flint.
"Don't touch my sister!"
His voice cracked on the final syllable, pitching upward into a desperate shriek.
His chest vibrated against the little girl’s side.
Monsters only have two hands, the boy thought, his muscles locking tight.
If I cover her, the hands have to hit me first.
A shield doesn't cry when it gets hit.
The old woman did not step back.
The fabric of her maroon cardigan rustled as she shifted her weight.
She lowered the ceramic plate just an inch.
The boy flinched, his shoulders hiking up to his ears, but he did not let go.
He squeezed the yellow lace tighter.
The little girl buried her messy, sauce-covered face into the crook of his neck.
She sobbed, her breath hot and wet against his collarbone.
The boy’s breathing came in short, rapid gasps.
His eyes remained locked on the wrinkled hand gripping the edge of the white plate.
May you like
Waiting for the white ceramic to fall.
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