My mother and I just moved into a neighborhood a few miles away from a Sioux Indian reservation. Within a few weeks after moving in, I became friends with a Catawba boy whose name was Nakota. He lived on the reservation, and after a few months of knowing Nakota, he invited me to his homestead. There were less houses on the reservation than I thought there would be, buts that’s only because there were less people living on the reservation than I first thought, there were about fifteen domiciles on the entire reservation. Nakota introduced me to his family, which consisted of his father, mother, and two younger sisters. When I talked to his father, he spoke in a very taciturn manner; his sentences were choppy and many of his words were monosyllabic. His voice was also vapid because it had almost no variation in pitch. Subsequent to my conversation with Nakota’s father about nothing of importance, Nakota took me to his room.
Inside of Nakota’s room, there was a repertoire of books and CDs from a variety of genres. I also discovered that Nakota had a collection of drawings and paintings that he had made hanging on his walls. This led to my decision, based upon my entailment that Nakota enjoyed art, that Nakota had a very auspicious life ahead of him if he continued to pursue his passion, instead of quelling it. After hanging out for an hour or so, I got a text from my mother requesting that I go to our town’s apothecary to pick up her prescription medication. She doesn’t like taking the medication but her psychiatrist made the dictum that she had to. I told Nakota that it was great meeting his family and that I had to leave. After some discussion, Nakota joined me in my trip to the apothecary. Neither one of us had a car so we decided to ride our bikes.
As we were riding to town, we took a break at a cliff that was a mile or so away from the reservation. The cliff was through a patch of woods with trees and shrubbery. We passed by a bush that had beautiful flowers. Nakota told me it was called a camellia bush. We broke through the tree line to see the cliff. The height of the cliff made everything else seem diminutive when you peered over the edge. We decided to play around, and I admit now it wasn’t a very judicious choice. Nakota began bragging about his strength and how well he could fight. His tone soon turned condescending and as he patronized me it became discernible what Nakota’s intentions were, so we began to quarrel.
Fists soon began flying and my thoughts soon became malevolent. I vaguely remember my mother’s psychiatrist telling her that her mental disorder could be passed down to me, and my mother recalling that her mother probably had the disorder because she had a tendency to become violent and was quick to anger. Nakota was surprised at my sudden malice, but he adjusted to it and returned my blows with his own. Nakota swung again and broke my nose. I stumbled back with blood rushing out of my nose. Red began to tint everything in my vision. Adrenaline surged through me, and I lost all self control. I ran towards Nakota, with a smile on my face, and pushed him. I watched him fall of the side of the cliff and tumble down the side, landing on plenty of rocks before finally reaching the bottom. His screams started when my laughter did, and ended when he hit that first rock. I still haven’t stopped laughing, and my mom is starting to believe that I’m crazy, and maybe I am.