/lit/ - Literature

It was the summer of 1941, in between eighth and ninth grade for my great grandfather, Jonathan, who was working as a caddy at the local country club along with a colored boy whom he did not get along with at all. While race was a factor, the real basis of their animosity for each other was rooted in their pride. When they first met jonathan instantly took a dislike to the boy for the way that he carried himself, with a confident, cocky manner as if he wasn’t living in poverty as a second class citizen but as he was member of the country club himself. The black boy noticed and took offence to the look of contempt on Jonathan’s face, and repaid him with the same grimace, only to reinforce Jonathan into loathing.
This hatred fermented and festered for a period until it fully ripened to where each other absolutely abhorred one another’s existence and believed to themselves that they would kill the other given the chance. This contempt eventually manifests itself in violence. After two months of working near each other the tension between them became unbearable and negro boy threw himself on Jonathan after work. Jonathan chipped a tooth during the fight and the other boy only suffered a busted lip. This wasn’t their last fight, in fact it only ignited a series of other, all more brutal than the last.
One day, after they had fought a half dozen times, Jonathan and the boy were restless and lustful for violence. They usually fought after their shifts, but today was different. Today Jonathan was acting much more cocky than what was normal, made more racist remarks and more easily pointed out flaws. The black boy couldn’t bare it any longer and punched Jonathan in the gut, doubling him over in pain. After a couple moments Jonathan recovered and grabbed a golf club the nearest bag and lifted it above his head. He brought the club down to the skull of the boy, emitting a sharp crack into the air. Visible in the wound where the club had landed was the milky white of bone, but quickly it turned red with the blood that poured out, cascading crimson pooling around his head, ever growing. The black boy laid unmoving with his face on the concrete in the blood as the Jonathan stood trembling at his side with the club gripped in his hands, believing that he had just killed.
The men resting inside rushed out after hearing the violence. When they found the scene no one asked what had happened, it was obvious. Jonathan hadn’t even made an attempt to hide his guilt and for the longest time failed to even observe the men’s presence. They had all stood in silence around the pair of boys until one man finally vocalized the question that they had all been wondering:
“Is he dead?”
And with this jonathan began to sob and his trembling grew worse until he fell to his knees. While one of the men decided to check the black child’s pulse another man took it upon himself to console jonathan.
“Don’t worry, kid, it was only a nigger.”