Coward || self-para
The evening protests could be heard from outside Cuppa Joe, where Gar was currently trying to hold it together. This mantra in his head--it kept repeating itself, a record spinning endlessly and unforgivingly loudly: “You used to be one of them. You chickened out. You left your mutant genes behind for a ‘normal’ life, and you’re no happier. Coward. Coward. Coward.”
Gar didn’t cry in public; in fact, he didn’t cry often at all. But something about a student around his age getting killed--someone who he had once upon a time shared something in common--was enough to make tears well up in his eyes, especially after the screams of justice turned to screams of horror when the teargas was brought out onto the protestors. “You should be there with them, fighting for something you once were” Gar thought to himself as he continued to scrub tables down and sweep the floors. “Coward. Coward. Coward.”
The thing was, he didn’t even like night shifts. Gar wasn’t even supposed to be working a night shift, but a coworker called in sick and Gar offered to work the remaining 4 hours. It’d mean more money in his pocket, yes, but it’d truthfully also mean an excuse for why he wouldn’t be at the organized protest tonight. “Coward. Coward. Coward”
And now that he was officially the last one in the shop, Gar let the tears fall. He let them fall like David Booth had fallen; with regrets of tomorrows that would never come.
