Roland Jones

Roland Jones

Roland Jones’ alarm clock rang. It was 6:30 a.m. He reached for his remote control and turned the television set on. Morning news. Coffee’s scent made its way into the bedroom. He pressed off on the remote, glanced at the cross hanging above his bed and made his way into the kitchen. His wife was standing in front of the coffee machine; she fixed him a cup. They sat down at the table, turned the kitchen television set on and drank his coffee. The television set was elevated, so their eyes were looking up.

“What’s for dinner tonight?” Roland asked.

“Chicken,” She answered.

After he was done with his coffee he went back into the bedroom to get dressed for work. He turned the television on and took a suit off of a hanger. He buttoned his shirt, put his jacket on and stuffed his tie into his pocket. He glanced at the cross hanging above his bed and left the room.

“Okay honey, I’ll see you later.” Roland said and shut the front door before any chance of a response. He would walk about a mile from his house to the bus stop. The leaves he stepped on were crunchy. He didn’t notice.

Roland stared out of the window of the bus the whole time on his commute to work. He did this every day.

On his walk home, Roland noticed a group of teenagers harassing an old man. He stood there staring at them, waiting to see what they would do next. Things turned violent and the old man fell to the floor. They searched his pockets. Roland hesitated, but realized the gravity of the situation. He inched in.

“Hey!” Roland said loud and timid. “Get away from that man. I’m going to call the police.” Roland took his cell phone out of his pocket and the boys turned around.

“What’s that buddy? Mind your own business and get outta here.” One of the boys said. Roland took his briefcase and hit one of the boys over the head; and then started to run. They ran too. They caught up to him. There were three of them, and each one took turns beating Roland. They eventually stopped. The old man had managed to walk away while they were beating Roland.

Chris Bellamy walked down Drudge Street. The breeze that moved his hair was weak and cool. His pockets were full with his hands. The concrete was old and cracked. He could see, in the distance, a large something on the ground. As he got closer, he was able to see it was a body. He ran up to it.

“Are you okay?” Chris got on his knee and shook the body. When he saw a blood stain, he reached into his pocket and grabbed his cell phone. The ambulance came and took Roland Jones to the hospital.

Roland’s eyes opened slowly. Light rushed in. It was blinding. The last time his eyes were open was three weeks ago. He couldn’t move. His eyes were forced to look at the bright lights above him. His wife noticed the open eyes.

“Roland. Your eyes are open.” Her eyes became glossy. He couldn’t talk. She ran out of the room to get a nurse. A nurse came in and she ran out of the room to get a doctor. The doctor came in and stood beside Roland.

“Hey there Roland. Don’t try to speak or move. We’re happy to see you finally make some progress. Move your index finger if you can understand me.” The index finger moved. “Great. You’ll be back on your feet in no time. Push the button on the side of your bed if you need anything.” The doctor left.

“Oh baby, I’m so happy. I was so scared. . .” Roland stopped hearing what his wife was saying as he drifted into thought. He remembered what happened. He remembered the boys that did this to him. He remembered the old man. Roland moved his eyes to the left and saw a bunch of get well soon cards. Among those cards was a thank you card. It was from the old man. Roland’s thoughts drifted from the incident, his wife, and then to God. He realized he needed to be more devoted. His faith grew stronger as he laid in the makeshift hospital bed while staring at the bright lights above him. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the television going. His wife put it on. He stayed in the hospital for three more weeks.

Roland went to church three times a week. The church goers looked at Roland as a hero. It took about another three weeks for him to return to work.

Roland Jones’ alarm clock rang. It was 6:30 a.m. His wife had already been up watching the television. He stared at the cross on the wall, then stood up and did the morning routine.

“Good morning, Roland.”

“Good morning.” He got dressed and head to work.

On his walk home from work, he came across a group of teenagers beating an elderly woman. He stopped. He stared. He saw the old woman’s eyes. She fell to the ground. She was looking at him. He looked down. He looked down at his cheap brown shoes. He watched one shoe move and then the other. He watched as they slowly but steadily walked away from the elderly woman.

Roland walked into his home and started to cry. With his back against the wall, he slid down it sobbing. He went into his room and fell on the bed.

The next morning, Roland picked up the paper. It was Saturday. He sat down on his couch and came across the story of a beating and death of an elderly woman. He stared at it, and then turned the page.

Roland woke up on Sunday at noon. He walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. He turned the television set on.

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