Into the Violet Gardens by Isaac Nasri

Author:Isaac Nasri [Nasri, Isaac]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-08-15T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Troy cocks his head, cracking open his eyes to Alana driving and transitioning her jeep toward a curve on the right, escaping from the plethora of cars that inundated the parkway. One of the shopping bags resting on the back seat shuffles over the seat’s edge. The soporific weight grips the Virtual as he rises, but something dangling from above a tree pole ignites a sting into his skin, forcing a surge of juice inside his blood. He’s unable to process the entire sight as he finds himself facing a set of twin projects in the middle of a bustling intersection. Whatever he seen he could deem anything but pleasant.

“We’s arriving,” Alana says. She takes the drink from the cup holder, inserting her mouth on the straw and sucking it.

Troy releases a yawn, but he restrains himself. “Didn’t know much about your uncle until now.”

With the exception of Gloria and Victor, Troy has never laid eyes on her uncle. He couldn’t blame himself. Unfortunately, with what’s passed these months, Troy’s expectations were as basic as a guest with a humdrum outlook upon walking into the most contemporary restaurant.

Alana sets down her drink, laughing half-heartedly. “Yeah.” Her eyes squint gauchely. “He been living in the Bronx his whole—green light.”

She proceeds, heading straight to where a gas station stood. Troy witnesses her hand rest on his shoulder. Alana’s pupils motion as she gazes at him. Troy’s heart delivers an echo. There was something Alana wanted to tell him, but Troy couldn’t decipher it. What was missing?

“There some differences, but nothing extreme—that doesn't sound right either.” Alana looks away before facing Troy again. She nods. “I got this, though.”

An eerie cloud trails above the two. The vehicle continues to pass, and Troy snaps his gaze away from a bunch of firebrands, possibly gang-affiliated, gathering and raising their rifles rashly inside the bridge. Paint can be heard spraying loudly even with the windows sealed.

Five minutes later, the car’s speed meets its limit at a seven-story apartment intertwined to a small office on the right. A triangular Puerto Rico flag attached to one of the balcony rails whips back and forth three feet up the complex. However, Troy watches Alana take an alternative route and bring her car to a halt within a few feet from the destination. She turns right to where dozens of parked cars resided across a medical clinic, forwarding her car into a vacant space behind a white Sentra. Troy gets off the jeep, hearing his phone alarm. He glimpses closely to 202-xxx-xxxx ringing, and a question mark rings in his head.

Okay? Strange.

Troy activates the call. “Levi here?”

A four-second pause booms until strikingly sound voice questions, “Troy…Hi. Is that you?”

The Virtual nods. “Yeah. And you must be—”

“Soriana,” the caller announces almost fervidly. Then she recites her name meticulously. “Soriana.”

Goddamn. I knew!

A bewildered Troy steps a couple of feet from Alana’s jeep and into the shade, rubbing his head. Traffic ushers down Pelham Parkway.

“Soriana…goddamn.” He wraps one of the dangling elastic bandages over his wrist hastily.

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