@Viana_Brown: We are grief. We are rage. The flood of it is never-ending.

@KelvinX_: No justice. No peace. #burnitdown #underhillriot

PEACH STREET

The air is thick and still. Tense, like a coiled spring under pressure.

Curtains flutter, then rest. Shades are drawn. Locks clicked and double-checked. Hand-lettered signs taped to windows: Black-Owned Business. A thin measure of protection. Behind the glass, a feeling of held breath, of hunkering down to ride out the storm.

They march in formation. Boots, batons, rifles, shields. Riot gear. Flanked by tanks and lit by spinning cherries.

They march as a crowd. Signs waving, mouths screaming.

Water and oil, baking soda and vinegar, waves lapping up against stone. Erosion. Eruption. Natural phenomena the city is meant to hold at bay, with its brick and steel and concrete.

These walls are meant to be unmoved.

WITNESS

You’ve seen enough. You don’t want to see more. It’s inexplicable, the decision to leave home. To make your way through the heart of Underhill. Toward the action. Not away.

When tanks roll through the streets of an American city, it makes the most sense to draw the curtains. Their treads will tear up the roads. Their guns are drawn by nature. All ambiguity is lost.

Through the bullhorns, they shout for order. You don’t want to be there when they start shooting for it instead.

The rage of a helpless people tastes like blood in the throat. Enough suffering to make us choke, cough, gargle our way toward breath.

One foot in front of the other. Motherfucking curfews be damned.

You have seen enough, and yet not enough. Enough to live in fear. Not enough to see Shae’s killer indicted and brought to trial. You have failed.

No, the system has failed. You’ve studied the statistics, out of curiosity. You weren’t surprised to learn how few police officers in the United States of America have ever been convicted of a wrongful shooting. Hardly any have even been indicted. Case after case: dismissed.

You walk the streets, uncomfortable. You walk the streets, with your eyes open. Someone has to be watching. Someone has to see how it all goes down.

You’ve seen enough, and yet not enough. Too much happens in back alleys. Too much happens in the heat of a moment. Too much goes wrong, and yet no one has seen enough to ensure justice.

The whole city’s on fire. That’s how it feels anyway. Underhill is a war zone. Tanks in the streets are only the beginning.

You walk, because you have the right to. You watch what they do in the name of order and law. You wonder what is the definition of freedom; you wonder what is the cost.

Shots fired. Shots fired. A symphony of sirens.

This is your neighborhood. They can’t have it. This is not a peaceful protest. This is a throwdown. You will not go quietly.