THE FIRST TIME

by
Damion Hamilton

Tony had done it. He couldn�t really believe he had done it. Everything seemed to have moved in a dream, and he was detached from whatever made life real. One moment he was riding and drinking with his friends. And the next moment, he had shot a man, possibly even killing him. He laid in his bed, thinking the cops will never find him � it was just another killing in the ghetto. And it wasn�t as if he had killed the guy, it seemed as the gang had killed him, even though he had pulled the trigger. He kept telling himself: all he did was pull a trigger � he didn�t really kill a man. He wasn�t the same as stabbing someone. That would have been gruesome. He just shot him, and it seemed clean and easy, and everybody kept telling him to do it. But he was alone now, and he kept thinking that maybe he shouldn�t have done it. The silence of the walls seemed very loud.

He was fifth�teen now, and something heavy weighed on his conscience. He thought about going to church, but he had stopped believing in that kind of thing, a long time ago. But he remembered what sin was, and this was a major sin � the biggest one of al � Thou shall not kill. And taking another human being�s life, seemed to be the biggest crime, a human being could commit. What if there was really a heaven and a hell. For this crime, he knew he was going maybe. He tried to close his eyes and sleep, but he had terrible pangs of conscience. All that he was able to see in this dream was Hell�fire and anguish. He was young, but he knew about wars, and all the killing that occurred in history from going to school. So many killed in war, and during peace. And in the streets, there was always so much killing going on. There was so many living in the crowded cities, and everything was so competitive, even love. But, killing someone seemed like such a terrible thing, it gave one the power of God, and he had handed that man his fate. He reflected on the man�s life, he must have been about thirty years old, and spent his whole life in the ghetto, and when he woke up that day, he probably didn�t think it would be his last one.

He shouldn�t think this way, he thought, he knew plenty of guys who have killed people. He closed his eyes, and opened them back up. He felt a current rise over him. He got up, and felt his t�shirt clinging to his skin, his heart was pounding and he felt nauseous. There was a lot of crimes that one could commit in this world, and a lot of these one could take back. Perhaps he would be haunted by this sin, his whole life, and never sleep again; then he felt his eyes redden and the tears ran down his cheek. Perhaps he didn�t really shoot the guy, perhaps he was only dreaming. And he would wake from the dream, and everything would be as it was before.

The drugs wore off, and the haze of consciousness wore off too. He was terribly sober now. He looked in a mirror. Had his face changed any? He thought he looked older, but that was impossible, one couldn�t age in a day. His eyes seemed larger, and his skin was paler. He lay in bed thinking about what he had done, until the thinking stopped.

He awakened next morning, and quickly dressed and washed himself, and went out the door. The solitude was suffocating him. He had to go out into the streets. It was a nice day, like one of the good days he remembered from his childhood. It didn�t seem like such a thing, as murder existed. A couple of neighbourhood buddies came up to him, and they seemed very light�hearted with their bantering and laughter. They even went to the park to shoot some hoops. It was just like the old times, like one of those days, which seem so long when one is very young.

Then the evening came along, as the sun began to wan. The evening seemed foreboding, with birds singing the cries of departure and most of the little children, who were playing outside had to go inside before dark. All of his friends had made plans to go to some bar or club, he began to feel very lonely again, and the torments from the night before, began to haunt him again. He watched a mangy dog walk across the street, a dog could not think or reflect. I dog was all feeling and in the moment, he could just walk over and shoot thing, without remorse, and nothing would have been lost. A strange smile appeared over his face. He retreated from the streets, and sat down the porch, and decided to brood and watch the evening fall into night. He watched some ants crawling about on a step; they seemed so industrious and he could take his shoe, or finger and wipe them away at any time. He watched them for some time, and their energy and industriousness began to annoy him. He took his shoe and began stomping them and smearing their bodies against the ground.

He saw a cat walking across the street. He like cats better than most humans; cats seemed to know things that people did not know. It would be harder to kill a cat, he thought, but he could do it, if he had to, no problem. But it would be too hard to get close enough to the thing to kill it, most were so wary. They knew life was something to be guarded furiously.

There was a black cat walking across the street, he didn�t like black cats � they spooked him out. He walked up to it, and the cat just kept staring at him. If only it would stay like that, while he withdrew his gun. He pulled it out, and the thing ran towards the bushes, out of his view. He was really going to shoot it � just to see if he could do it again. He had to kill something to get his mind off the first kill.

He decided to back into the house and sleep. He slept a little better, than the night before.

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� Damion Hamilton
Reproduced with permission

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