But something must kill a man. I tried to muster courage to face the inevitable. Death must come one way or the other. Whoever said those who fought and ran lived to fight another day had not taken the physically challenged into consideration.
How do you run from a fight when you are blind? You may actually be running from frying pan to fire? How would you run when you have k-leg and your knees are knocking together from fear of a certain death.
It was not going to be a fight anyway, he was about to lynch me. I was not qualified to fight him. Calling me the underdog was to abuse the name. My case was worse than that of a rat among wild cats. I was not even an under-rat.
I had walked into a lion's den just in good time. Lunch break. But what I could not fathom was how and why a gospel artist would be that incurably thirsty for my own blood.
My entire life began to play out before my eyes. I saw my late mother smile at a younger version of me... He fiercely shook me out of my grave trance as he grabbed me by the collar with one hand, cutting off oxygen flow to and from my lungs. He raised the other hand and I was sure if it connected with my head or my jaw that it would burst on impact.
Somewhere in the very dark recess of my mind, one useless voice said, "it is finished". I was about to die for nothing.
By some unexplainable act of miracle we heard the sound of sporadic gun shots rent the air outside the event place. For one split second his hand on my neck loosened a teeny weeny bit. It was all I needed.
Usain Bolt would have been very jealous of my speed. I was panting profusely when it dawned on me I had used the door behind the stage. I had escaped from the jaws of death. In one piece.
I moved further away from the door. Drawing breath fully into my lungs I looked over my shoulders to be sure I was alone . Just then that door opened behind me...
Katch ya on Saturday.
Photo Debit: Delicious Pinshur
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