The Righteous by Jude Gerald Lopez

I woke to a symphony of screams and shouts. It had become a horrendous part of my adolescent life to see my creators fight over the silliest of things. Last night’s rice, this morning’s stew – the matters of the past – were the causes for the fights that shattered each and every familial bond made.

My mother’s prized possessions, her exquisite crockery, lay shattered on the floor in bits and pieces; it formed a mosaic of my sorrow. Dada’s spilled cologne filled the room with a fragrance quite inappropriate for the situation. They both felt as if they had won. Neither felt the overwhelming sense of loss that lurked like a sly ghost in the room.

I felt that loss and maybe that was my curse, to see and feel things that others simply refused to feel and see. There was still gentleness in each of their faces. Mama asked me whether I wanted tea or coffee, Dada asked me whether I had read the Bible and when the answer was in the negative, he suggested Ezekiel 18:20.

The soul who sins shall die. The son shall not suffer for the iniquity of the father, nor the father suffer for the iniquity of the son. The righteousness of the righteous shall be upon himself, and the wickedness of the wicked shall be upon himself.

It was no consolation. Eternity failed to interest me when the present was so dissonant. God was a mercenary and I the collateral. The two-headed beast regulated my thoughts and my deeds.

Once I had finished my cup of tea (that tasted like tar) and had finished my reading (that sounded like the threat of a lunatic), I stayed in my room, my ears keen on picking up cryptic messages that could shed light on what the duel was all about.

“I knew it. I like hell knew it. You whore!”