Invisible Barriers (A very short story)

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Eyes stare, glance away, then stare again. They see the color, not the person. They see the culture, but not the personality. Just strolling down the street, and people are suddenly on edge, believing what their father told them, believing that I'm just a walking, talking threat. They see percentages, nature, and invisible barriers. I keep my gaze on the street, on the moving feet beneath me. The chance I was never given is taken away, held right beyond their beliefs and doubts. Their ever-failing trust. I stumble on a crack in the chipping concrete, falling on my hands and knees. People in their garages and on their porches, shaded by red roofs or pink umbrellas, avert their eyes, and don’t offer a helping hand or a word of concern. I wipe my stinging hands on my jeans and keep going. I don’t take my tired gaze off the littered sidewalk until I get to a small trail of cement. My eyes follow it up to a small, yellow house, the overgrown bushes in front of it, the swinging bench on the porch, and through the small window next to the beige door. A tall, dark-skinned man stand, hugging a woman with white skin and pale blue eyes that are crinkled in laughter. Her blonde hair is piled on her head in a very messy bun. My dad closes his happy eyes and kisses Mom on the forehead. A small smile plays on my lips as I walk up the trail, making my way to the small, yellow house. Making my way home.