017 — The Serpent Finds an Exit | Talon Z. Gray

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My childhood snake found an exit.
Coiled and ready no more.
A bedtime lullaby, interrupted.

“They want to make sure I’m set for success,” the snake said.
“That’s what family is for.”
It let itself into the yard.
I don’t remember how it began.

I was too young to process—
so I acted instead.

The snake slithered closer, its voice soft.
“I am hurt. I need your warmth.
Will you take me inside?”

No.
Never again.
This time I refuse.

The snake hissed:
“Such a young age…
How did you learn not to fear the void?”

It expected obedience.
Expected me to keep its secret
like all the others before me.

“I’ll wait outside…” it threatened.
“You cannot hide forever.
I’ll sink my fangs into your flesh—
not for food or rage,
but for respect.”

I stared into its cold, ancient eyes.
Eyes that had lingered in every institution,
disguised as mentors,
clergy,
fathers,
teachers.

This is not just a snake.
This is the legacy of harm.
A lineage of predators shielded by silence.

The abuse ends today.

High noon. The time we arranged.
No better place than here.
No better moment than now.

“You knew damn well I was a snake—”
(The child slams a cinder block onto the snake’s head.)

A jazz trio kicks in.
A broken toy piano.
Muted trumpet.
Ghostly drum brushes.

The cycle is broken.