2

The day before the incident, people knew something was wrong. I’m not sure if they even knew what was the matter specifically, but I could tell they felt something.

            Our city of 200,000 people felt entirely too small that day. People liked to compare Boma to a clock, with the Commercial Zone where the twelve would be, the Suburban Zone where four through six would be, and the Industrial Zone completing the six through ten of the clock. As a kid I remember going to eat at a restaurant in the Commercial Zone, which 18-year-old me would complain about being far too luxurious. Fortunately my father was a CEO of one of our city’s largest advertising companies, so my mom never needed to work and we pretended to be high-class citizens at times.

            In this case, the restaurant was called Backyard Boma. I always thought that was where the rich people went when they wanted to look like they dined like the average American, while paying for sirloin steak. Which I’m sure was grilled on a trashy coal-fed grill in the back.

            My mother always smiled courteously as if we were on display, while I complained about their lack of mac and cheese on the kids’ menu. It must have been a horrible idea to bring a thirteen year-old to an upper-class eatery.

            After the waiter took our orders and shuffled off to take care of other guests, I noticed three or four tables of people. Ordinarily I only people-watch one person at the time, but in this case they were people-watching me. Most of them wore dresses and pearls or diamonds. They didn’t appear to be the type to blatantly stare.

            Rat’s eyes; they all had rat’s eyes. Little rodents glancing back and forth between me and whoever was in their company. Rodents dressed as kings and queens.

            They were intrigued; utterly confused. A thicker woman even leaned forward until her menu collided with her wine glass. In one swift motion the glass tipped over the edge and was sent sailing towards the floor.

            Shards of glass, oozing crimson, beams of light on the tables and customer’s faces. The clang of the glassware seemed to follow the moment in which it shattered. They weren’t looking at me. They were deep in conversation with one another. One couple was complaining about how there was only a rock path separating the Industrial Zone from the Suburban Zone, even though lower class citizens were the ones forced to purchase or rent homes near the Industrial Zone.

I hadn’t seen them turn back towards whomever they were with. The shattering of the wine glass seemed to mask them regaining each other’s attention. They seemed lively, like cartoon human beings. My mom ordered me to focus on her instead of assaulting others with my eyes.

            I had many flashbacks to that day; the eyes of the rodents returned the day before the incident.

Author's Note

What do you think of the diction? Any comments are appreciated!