Kell

 

Kell awoke the next morning, already connecting with his new attitude and direction. He sat on the side of his bed and quietly thanked the heavens for another day. He was always appreciative for another sunrise, another day to show himself and improve on yesterday’s failures.

He went to the bathroom to clean himself up. He washed his face first, brushed his teeth, then looked at his reflection in the tiny mirror mounted on the wall. Today’s going to be a good day. He spoke it into his subconscious, spoke it into existence, so therefore he believed it would happen. He pulled his hair back and tied it with a thick leather strap at the base of his neck, then went back into his bedroom. There wasn’t much in it except his halogen lamp and a stack of books climbing the corner. There was also a small dresser next to the closet door and his full-sized bed pushed against the wall, allowing him enough space to sit Indian-style on the floor at the foot of his bed.

Kell was a man who believed in taking moments to clear his mind, to center himself.  He would meditate first thing in the morning. He would awaken and exercise his mind before he’d exercise or feed his body. When he’d first been cast away from his home, his thoughts had been a minefield, full of chaos and bombs that would ignite at any moment. He was young, inexperienced but, more than anything, he was terrified. Acceptance of fear and the ability to control it had a way of thrusting a boy into manhood. It had taken many years and long hours of training to get to where he was mentally. Every day, he learned from his mistakes.  He was ready to start a new direction and he wasn’t going about it without pure thought.

Kell closed his eyes and welcomed the morning sun on his face. The weather forecast was calling for a brisk thirty-three degrees on this cool January morning, but his apartment was warm, and he was safe. Kell smiled into the serenity, letting peace wash over him. He didn’t have a lot of possessions and luxuries in his life, but what he did have he was thankful for and proud of. Kell cleared all other thoughts and concentrated on his breathing. After he was satisfied that his mind was in a relaxed state, he got off the floor and did some yoga stretches to loosen up before starting his specially designed workout for a martial arts master of his caliber.

When he was finished, he let his heart rate ease back down. Sweat dripped from his brow as he wrapped up his mourning routine with a steaming shower. He dressed quickly, needing to eat breakfast and get to the dojo before his eleven a.m. class. He liked working with the grade-level students more than the advanced classes. The youthful innocence was refreshing compared to the corrupted minds of the adults.

In his eat-in kitchen, he set a small skillet on the burner to heat and cracked three eggs into a mixing bowl with a splash of milk. He whipped it mindlessly, staring out of the window of his third-floor apartment, wondering what his day would bring. He dumped the mixture into the pan and quickly added some shredded cheddar and fresh spinach leaves to one half. He wasn’t a great chef like his sensei—who seemed to be a master of all trades—but he could make a mean omelet and cook dinner well enough not to have to survive on unhealthy takeout. He poured himself a small glass of grapefruit juice and sat at his two-seater bistro table he’d gotten at a yard sale a couple of years ago. He bowed his head and said grace. You could take the boy out of the Catholic school but…

With a full stomach and calm demeanor, Kell stood at the front door and bundled himself up to protect him against the elements. He wrapped his black knit scarf around his neck, tucking the frayed parts into his black, long-hooded tunic. He already had on his midnight-colored, traditional contact pants, so he wouldn’t have to worry about changing when he arrived. Since he had to walk four blocks through a rough neighborhood and a trailer park, he tucked his rubber soled Kung Fu shoes into his messenger bag and opted for his Walmart specials. Expensive shoes never made sense to him, especially when they only made contact with the ground.

As soon as he stepped out of the main door of his building, the frigid wind slapped him in his face with a proper ‘good morning’. The sun may have felt warm and inviting through his apartment window, but once outside he felt as if it’d retreated to let the winter have its glory. Kell pulled the hood up, letting the front hang over his forehead, then placed his scarf across his nose. He jogged down the last few steps of his building, feeling ready to take on his new purpose.  

The streets were pretty quiet at ten-thirty, most people having already punched the time clock at their jobs, and the kids who were still giving school a chance, were already at their desks. The only ones left lingering around were those who had nothing else to do, no aspirations, no purpose. Kell kept his head lowered and didn’t make eye contact with the grown men standing on the corner of Shirley Place and Verbena, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t watching them.

“You got a square, man?” one of them asked, when Kell walked by.

He didn’t speak, didn’t remove his scarf as he shook his head. They eyed him warily, each of them packing serious heat under their puffy jackets. Heat didn’t scare him anymore, especially when he wouldn’t give them a chance to draw their burners. Kell didn’t carry a weapon… he was the weapon. The one with a jagged scar over his right eye stepped off the curb, but let him go by.

He kept moving along the cracked sidewalks, passing a rundown recreation center that the city had been swearing it was going to remodel, and a shopping center that had more closed and boarded-up shops than it had operable. It didn’t matter, because the two shops that were open for business had banned Kell years ago. To them he was a trouble maker, a hoodlum. He dressed in black, wore a black hood and black scarf—void of all gang colors and markings—they still didn’t trust him. In this neighborhood his white skin meant nothing, just like the blacks didn’t. They were all the same, and there for one reason. They had nowhere else to go. Grover Park was a desolate, crime-ridden area of northwest Atlanta, but it was home. Kell’s apartment complex was luxuries away from the mansion he’d grown up in in Lenox Park. Leaving perfectly paved streets to these. To a concrete jungle, where Kell was an apex predator.

He walked with purpose, alert, a persistent tingling in the pit of his stomach when he moved alone. It wasn’t like the worried sensation of butterflies he’d had when he was a kid, but the feeling of his unchecked power. Years of over-sensitizing his senses, constantly aware of potential threats, Kell pulled his scarf up right under his eyes, squinting and seeing hundreds of feet ahead. He cut through the trailer court to save time, instead of taking the longer route down the old railroad tracks. As he came around the back of a single-wide trailer that looked like even it’d seen better parks he heard a man yelling obscenities. His voice was slurred as it filtered through the broken window. Kell stepped around shattered glass and a broken-down old Plymouth sitting on cinderblocks.

What man would be intoxicated at this hour? Kell leaped over the small chain-link fence with ease, coming around to the front yard. A lesser man, that’s who. He tried not to stop, especially after he heard a woman’s shrill cry and doors slamming.

He took a deep breath and said a small prayer. “Lord watch over her and ease her fears,” he whispered, keeping his eyes trained on his path.

“’Mornin,” A small voice called out to him. He almost didn’t hear her.

He turned quickly, peeping up at the dirty window she sat under, before he slowly approached her. She looked to be about six or seven, with long, deep brown curls tangled and matted on her small head. Kell frowned, wondering why she was sitting on the ground outside in the cold alone, but as more arguing filtered out to them, he understood exactly why. Kell closed his eyes and counted backward from five, fighting the urge to burst through that raggedy screen and knock that man back into a deep sleep. Then made sure he woke up with a better way of thinking and a new level of gratitude for his family.

Kell lowered his scarf and knelt in front her. She scrunched her legs up tighter toward her frail body then glanced up at the window above her, as if she was afraid her hiding spot was being compromised. Kell ducked lower and inched in beside her. He noticed she had tear track marks down her red cheeks and her little hands were clamped over her left knee.

“Good morning.” He pointed at her leg and whispered, “are you okay?”

She shook her head slowly before carefully unveiling a bright red abrasion on her kneecap. Kell winced at the angry scratches. This poor girl should’ve been picked up and carried inside by her father’s strong arms and her injury properly cared for, with love. She should’ve been the center of his heart and soul… his child. Why was she out in the cold and hurt? Kell trembled, releasing a slight hiss of anger, causing the girl to stiffen in alarm.  

“You like lollipops?” Kell smiled while pulling a small Ziploc bag out of the front pocket of his tote. He opened the bag and showed her the vast selection of suckers he kept for his students. He let her reach inside and choose whichever she wanted. She didn’t waste time opening it and shoving it into her mouth as if she’d been craving a good sugar high for weeks.

More arguing, more glass breaking. The woman was still putting up a good fight, saying exactly how she felt about her no-good husband losing his ninth job. They weren’t beating each other, it sounded more as if they were taking it out on the poor trailer. The little girl ducked   when a loud thud hit the wall right above their heads, but Kell didn’t flinch. Instead, he concentrated on dousing some bottled water onto his spare bandana before cleaning her wound very gently while she concentrated on how many licks it took to get to the center of her Tootsie pop. By the time she was crunching into it, Kell was taping a Neosporin-infused bandage over the scratch. He kept a basic first aid kit, since he was so used to injuries.

“You didn’t make a peep. I think you deserve another,” Kell whispered, opening the bag again. This time, she opted for a watermelon blow pop and shoved it into the pocket of her flimsy windbreaker. “What’s your name sweeth—”

“Who the fuck are you?!”

The screen door slammed open and banged against the pale-yellow siding of the trailer. A tall man with a pot belly and a bottle of Icehouse beer in his hand stumbled down the steps and turned angry bloodshot eyes on his little girl. “Sue Ellen, get your butt in the house right now!”

The girl darted past her father, the terror of being his next target overshadowing the pain in her wounded knee. She hobbled up the stairs and into her mother’s arms. Kell bristled, his hood still low on his head, he pulled his scarf back up over his nose and turned to face the worthless collection of flesh and bones who had made the mistake of addressing him. He didn’t answer the rat’s question. Kell didn’t converse with the ignorant.  He wouldn’t understand him. They spoke a different language. Honorable men spoke in a universal language encased in strong morals and iron-clad principles.

What had this disgrace done with the family God gave him? Mistreated them and took his precious treasures for granted. He didn’t deserve his child. He was a drunk, a victimizer and offender of his weaker vessels—his wife and daughter. They required his protection, not his abuse.

The vibration in Kell’s diaphragm intensified to an alarming level. He flexed and cracked each one of his fingers in his hands and closed them tightly into fists that felt like concrete when they impacted. So he’d heard. Kell eased his right foot behind him and leaned into his fight stance. He’d right this wrong.

“Stay on the path.”

He heard his sensei’s voice just as clearly as if he was standing in front of him. What was Kell doing? This was not his fight nor was this his path. After only a couple of minutes in this vagabond’s presence and he had Kell straying from his journey and questioning himself. A master. Kell stood straighter, ignoring the loud obscenities being slung at him.

Such a weak vocabulary. I’ve given him two minutes too much of my time. Kell took careful steps backwards, his head still lowered, but his eyes forward, not turning his back on this shameful fool. He seemed serpentine enough to try to attack him as he retreated.

“If I see you again, you’re dead!” the man slurred one last time, for good measure.

He never saw Kell. Only saw the fair skin around his blue-green eyes, but Kell sure saw him. Even with his hood low, he saw everything.

The scoundrel had it the other way around. If Kell saw him again… he was the dead one.