Pick up a mop and go clean the latrines, kid, this range isn't for street trash, the range master sneered, shoving fifteen-year-old Malik Holloway away from the custom training rifle.
Sunday dinner at Aunt Lena’s house always meant a crowded table and the aroma of fried chicken and collard greens. Tonight, however, the usual warmth felt thin, stretched taut. I sat beside Maya, trying to pick at my plate, but Marcus’s presence at the head of the table, booming with fake joviality, made every bite stick in my throat.
He’d arrived with his wife, Gloria, who kept shooting worried glances at him.
“Malik, you barely touched Aunt Lena’s cooking,” Uncle Ray said, nudging me. “That’s a first.”
I managed a weak smile. “Just not very hungry tonight, Uncle Ray.”
Marcus cleared his throat, commanding the room. He dabbed at his mouth with a linen napkin. “It’s understandable, Ray. Malik’s been through a lot. The grief…” He sighed dramatically, shaking his head.
My stomach churned. I knew exactly where this was going.
“The boy’s been struggling,” Marcus continued, his voice dripping with sympathy that felt like venom. He looked around the table, making eye contact with our aunts and uncles. “Having some… difficulties processing Aaron’s passing. Hallucinations, even.”
A collective murmur went through the room. My heart hammered.
“Hallucinations?” Aunt Lena asked, her brow furrowed with concern.
Marcus nodded gravely. “Yes. He’s been telling people that Aaron was part of some secret military unit. Even claims that cheap pendant he’s wearing,” he pointed a finger directly at the lion pendant under my shirt, “is some kind of family heirloom.”
I felt my face flush hot. Maya reached under the table, her hand finding mine and squeezing it tight, a silent warning to keep my temper.
“It is!” I blurted out, unable to hold back. “Dad gave it to me.”
Marcus chuckled, a dismissive sound. “Malik, son. We both know that’s not true. Aaron had no such item. I remember you admired a similar one at a pawnshop down on Cascade Road a few months back. Said you wanted to buy it for yourself.”
He shook his head sadly. “It’s just the grief talking, folks. He saw it, coveted it, and now his mind has convinced him it was his father’s. A coping mechanism, I suppose.”
Aunt Carol, usually so kind, looked at me with pity. “Oh, Malik, honey. You need to stop this. Your uncle is just worried about you.”
“He’s right, son,” Uncle Ray added. “Your father was a good man, but he was no soldier. Don’t make up stories.”
The entire table turned against me, their faces a mixture of concern and gentle disapproval. They didn’t see Marcus’s calculating eyes, only his performance of a worried uncle.
“He’s lying!” I protested, my voice louder now, attracting more uncomfortable glances. “Dad gave me this pendant, and he left us a key! He knew something was happening to him!”
Maya squeezed my hand harder, her nails digging into my palm. “Malik, please,” she whispered.
Marcus leaned back in his chair, a smug look of triumph playing on his lips. “See? This is exactly what I mean. Breaking into places, looking for ‘keys’… he’s just distraught. We need to be understanding, but also firm. He’s making up wild accusations about stolen property, about secret units. It’s not healthy.”
He looked at me directly, his eyes cold and hard. “You need to stop this, Malik. For your own sake, and for the family’s. You’re embarrassing us. And you’re tainting your father’s memory with these delusions.”
The weight of their judgment pressed down on me. I wanted to scream, to smash something, to prove him wrong. But their eyes, full of pity and disbelief, trapped me.
I pushed my plate away, the thought of eating making me nauseous. I pushed my chair back, the scrape echoing in the sudden silence.
“I’m not delusional,” I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage. “And I will prove it.”
I walked out of the dining room, leaving the clatter of silverware and the hushed whispers behind me, the heavy silence of their disbelief following me all the way to the front door.
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