Tipping Point
The rope dug in, pulled tight, constricted his neck while another line fell over his head like a broken halo. It landed across his shoulders, heavy braids, closing together in a coiled embrace.
He had never felt such anger, as the noose started etching a track, gouging a necklace of raw hatred. Both ropes fought against his weight in a rhythmic dance of resistance and gravity.
Hands shoved his back and shoulders to coax him off the ledge. He felt as if his feet were rooted in the cement, hoping it would not give. Thoughts of past admiration betrayed this balance as a crack in his hopes emerged.
A cheer rose through the crowd as he started to tip. There was nothing to grasp, but empty air exhaled from the mob. A squeak escaped the crumbling of the ledge as he fell silently in an arc of death.
His head bounced on the pavement with a thud, pieces of his face sheared off. Another cheer broke the silence as they danced around the morbid scene, high-fives and hugs abounded.
Protesters had pulled down another confederate statue and were celebrating its rightful place in the trash heap of history.
© Tuan Pham-Barnes 2020
