The blood dripped onto Chenise’s yellow kitchen floor, each drop landing with a soft tap that seemed louder than thunder in the sudden silence. Her left eye was already swelling shut, and she could taste copper in her mouth where her tooth had cut through her lip. Deshan stood over her, his fist still clenched, while his sister Candace held a chunk of Chenise’s natural hair in her manicured fingers like some kind of trophy.
“Look what you made me do,” Deson said, shaking his head like he was disappointed in a child. All I asked was where my dinner was. Shenesh tried to speak, but her jaw felt loose, wrong somehow. She had been late coming home from the salon because Mrs. Patterson needed her gray roots touched up before her church anniversary.
