Hello, Little Sparrow Jordan Jones (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📖

He put his silverware down for a second and thought. “I have a lot of memories I like to sit and think about. That’s what I choose to share. Those memories.”

“Anything in particular?” Mae asked.

Brooks wiped his face with a napkin and the waiter came and topped his water off.

“My sister…Jody. She was an angel. Every Saturday morning she would wake me up at dawn and we’d make eggs in the kitchen before Mom and Dad were awake. We’d make a ruckus, banging pans and plates around. I always knew our parents woke as a result, but they never came out of their room to see what was going on. They let us cook eggs.”

“How old were you?”

“I would’ve been five and my sister was eight,” Brooks cleared his throat. “She would make the eggs half runny and half solid, nowhere near cooking them all the way through, but I never cared. I was there with the most important person in my life, having a great time every Saturday. We’d then head outside and play any number of imaginary games. She used me as a knight who had to fight all of her battles…she was just a princess after all.

I’d often have to slay a dragon or two, or defend her castle, which was actually a tree house, from an undead army. She would join me in the fight and dance around the yard, singing as her slain enemies lay at her feet. This went on Saturday after Saturday. I spend a lot of my time in the darkness of my living room thinking back to those times.”

“Are you two still close?” Mae asked, putting her fork down.

“She’s dead,” Brooks said. “I was her knight on many occasions, but she took my place in more battles than I could ever count. I didn’t deserve her. This world didn’t deserve her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Brooks,” she said, placing her hand over his. “Those memories have to be such a precious thing to you right now, with her death being so fresh in your mind.”

He nodded and picked up his fork. “So, what do you hate?”

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“We both talked about what we liked. Now, let’s talk about what we hate.”

“Oh!” Mae responded, putting her hand over her mouth. “OK, I hate spiders more than anything. They claim my house as their own all the time and mult — “

“No, Mae…” Brooks interrupted. He could feel his eyes grow dark, though he tried to keep the fire inside lit. “Tell me what you really hate. None of this superficial pseudo-phobia jargon. I want to see your real hate.”

She stopped chewing and sat back in her seat, looking Brooks up and down. Brooks could feel his blood reach the surface of his face.

“Well, it seems like you have something in mind, so how about you go first.”

Brooks took a deep breath, and exhaled before swallowing.

“I have a disdain for people who violate other people in unmistakably and undeniably terrible ways,” he said.

“Like, assaulting them?”

“Like stealing their innocence,” he continued. “Taking away everything someone has built up throughout their entire lives and throwing them in the garbage. Sexual deviants who perpetrate the most disgusting acts against humans just for their own gratification. Especially against children. These perverts are vile and I want them all to die slow and horrific deaths.” Brooks covered his mouth and looked for a reaction, but Mae wasn’t offering one.

His eyes were jet-black and offered no reprieve for either of them.

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Mae finally said. “That is something that almost all people don’t like. That’s pretty bad, Brooks.”

He nodded, finding himself out of the trance he was in. He placed his hands back on the table and found the fork.

“Your turn.”

“Is it OK if I skip mine?” She asked, clearly shaken. “I’m just wanting to finish here…and I forgot I have to pick my sister —“

“I said your turn…”

“Um, OK,” she was starting to tremble. “I think much like your answer, I don’t like pedophiles or rapists or anything like that. But, sometimes there’s a silver lining, Brooks. I was a victim to a sexual assault when I was much younger. The guy was a neighbor of mine and he spent almost eight years in prison because of it, but now we talk on a regular basis. His name is Tomas White and he lives in the west side. He is on the registry and everything and hasn’t hurt a fly since. Part of my healing came from forgiving him for what he did to me. Part of his healing did, too. Sometimes beautiful things can arise from smoking ashes.”

“No,” Brooks said. “No, it’s not true. The ashes will stay ashes. Nothing can arise from them after that. You don’t forgive him. You can’t. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I did! I swear I did!” Mae edged towards the end of the booth.

“No, Mae. They’re terrible and everything they do is terrible. If he really did that to you, you’d want him dead. Anyone should!”

“I think it’s time to go,” Mae insisted. “Sir, can we have our check. I’m going to call my friend for a ride. Thanks, Brooks, but I’m going to go.”

Brooks kept from lunging at her as she walked past him and out the door. The waiter came and dropped off the check, but didn’t say a word. The half-eaten meals lay undisturbed on the table and Brooks knew if he didn’t move now, he’d sit there for hours contemplating his next move.

He could feel cold, wet feet walk up from behind him and he closed his eyes. A cold hand touched his left shoulder and a small voice whispered in his ear.

“Are you ready now, Brooks?”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

DeAngelo