The Innocents by Nathan Senthil (autobiographies to read .TXT) 📕

You tried your best to heal it. Her love didn’t germinate so much from loyalty but more from her natural tendency to remedy the ailing. Motherly care, although not a totally altruistic one; this was not the world she wanted her survivor son to live in. Ryatt didn’t rescue his mommy and fight his way out of her womb to come to this disgusting place. She promised herself that she would do everything in her tenuous power to make their community a better place to live in.

Ryatt finished humming the song and, out of the blue, he said, “Love you, Mommy.” He always said it without a prompt, looking elsewhere, not at Iris. As if it was an incontrovertible fact that he stated just because. And her heart burst in love every time.

“Aw, I love you too, my angel.” She rubbed his soft curls.

“Mom, look! A McDonald’s!” Ryatt pointed at one of those new drive throughs.

“You’re hungry?”

“No, but I wanna go.” Ryatt clasped his hands and begged. “Please, Mommy.”

Well, there was no denying a request put like that. What the heck, she decided she’d splurge, albeit slightly perplexed by his newfound interest. Ryatt used to love Burger Chef’s Funmeal before Wendy’s introduced drive-throughs and McDonald’s followed suit. Now they were sprouting up like mushrooms, and Ryatt never missed their Golden Arches. How soon had he outgrown the chintzy toys that came with the Funmeals! Or maybe he hadn’t. Something about getting fast food while sitting in a vehicle made kids forgo the excitement of going inside for a little toy.

Iris stopped the car in front of a window, and a teenager with a perpetually bored face jotted down their order, which was just an ice cream. Ryatt leaned out, paid for it, and collected the cold treat, never stopping to smile until the conclusion of business, even though his gum-chewing interlocutor offered nothing more than the obligatory greetings. Iris, who didn’t turn off the engine due to her recent reminder of the condition of her car, shifted into the first gear, drove around, and resumed the journey.

The distant gray buildings were silhouetted against the sinking red orb behind them radiating in the sky. She glanced at her boy, and like always, the glance turned into a stare, not for the peculiar way he ate ice creams—he never licked or sucked but just bit the thing off and swallowed it like a starving wolf coming across a meal in the Siberian Tundra—but because of his oceanic eyes. There was something mesmerizing about them, deep and mysterious, and they always transfixed Iris. The color couldn’t befit anyone better. Combined with Ryatt’s caramel skin, they gave him such a wise look, as if he had got it all together already. A man with a plan. Cool as a cucumber. A survivor who came knocking down into the world, a world that was going up in smoke and spiraling into utter chaos.

As they got closer to home, Ryatt was rubbing his eyes vigorously, which were starting to look reddish. The Plymouth trundled to a stop in front of her store, and they both got down.

“Mom, my eyes feel funny,” Ryatt said and wiped them with his knuckles.

“It’s the chemicals, sweetie.” Iris held his hands gently and pulled them loose. “You go rest now. If they feel funny after an hour, we will go to the doctor.”

She unlocked the front door, which was thankfully not jimmied, and Ryatt ran towards the back that led to their bedrooms. She went inside and positioned herself behind the billing counter, looking out at passing cars.

A black Alfa Romeo stopped in front of the shop, blocking her view, and a short chubby young man alighted from the front. First thing anyone would notice about him was his white-blond hair and bushy eyebrows. Pulling his loose pants up, he walked to the backdoor and opened it. A man, taller than six feet and heavier than two hundred pounds, stepped down. He wore a hat that drooped to the side of his face, and he carried a white walking stick, which he didn’t need. He was healthy as a mule, his muscles built like a wrestler who let his body go.

He came into the shop and smiled at Iris, the uncanny expression of a viper. “Bugsy.” He tipped his head at the chubby man. “He’s my cousin from Naples. They call him Roman. How about that?”

Iris’s face crumpled. “Sorry, do I know you?”

“My name’s Bugsy but people call me Mr. Hat. I’m the capo of the Detroit Alliance. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

Iris had, from papers and hearsay. They were the zenith of evil when it came to Detroit. Murder, rape, extortion, drug and human trafficking, even pornography, nothing was beneath them when it came to debauchery.

Iris nodded.

“Your mother borrowed $5,000 from my boss before deciding to catch cancer and die.”

Indignant, words tumbled out of her mouth. “I already told the kid—”

“Kid she says.” Bugsy looked at Roman and laughed, before turning his attention back to Iris, without the smile, however snake-like it had been. “My collection agent has murdered two people so far, but the poor bastard’s fallen for you. He just can’t bring himself to carve you up like he’s ordered to.”

Frowning, Iris said, “C-carve me—”

“So, you are the woman who gave birth alone during the riots? The Strong Thing?”

“Yes,” Iris managed to say, hating the fame the papers had brought her. When she had carried Ryatt that dark afternoon, with the cord still connecting them, she found a group of firefighters around the corner. They had used a wireless and called in an EMT who carefully severed the tube. A man was lying on a stretcher inside the EMT and when he heard how she managed to deliver the baby by herself, he introduced himself as a news reporter. He went on ahead and