I can’t even look at my mom anymore. Because the eyes she once loved, she now hates. And I don’t blame her either. Because I’m no longer her little angel — I’m the reaper.
It happened two years ago. Trey and I were on the front porch, talking about our dreams. Laughing. Waiting for her to finish cooking dinner.
But neither of us ever made it back inside.
It all happened so fast. And every time I close my eyes I can’t help but replay every second of it. The way the car squeaked as it slowed down. The passenger’s tinted window disappearing as it descended. That thick, tatted arm reaching out, holding metal. I could feel the bullet rip through my flesh. I could hear the birds scatter. I could taste blood fill my mouth. My shirt got wetter. My light got darker.
When I woke up, I was sitting in a hospital bed. The nurse immediately ran out after noticing my eyes were open. Not long after, my mom ran in, quickly embracing me. I’ll never forget that look on her face. Though she wore a smile, I knew it was a mask. Her eyes were empty, too. I’ve seen that woman fight and overcome countless struggles her entire life, and nothing could ever bring her down. And still, it hasn’t, because this nightmare didn’t bring her down — it shattered her.
I knew my brother was gone long before she was finally able to tell me. I knew he was gone the moment he shielded me and took most of those bullets. It’s because of him that I’m still breathing.
But still, I died.
A couple of days later they finally let me out of the hospital. The ride home was quiet, but I had so many questions. None of it made any sense. I came from a good home. We weren’t in the streets, we were in school. We didn’t do violence, we did charities. Not one person in my family even had a record. But still, they took my brother’s life. And they made my mom scream in a way that haunts me to this day.
I stared out the window, trying desperately to hold on to my sanity.
“They got him,” she finally said, breaking the silence. I looked at her, but her eyes stayed on the road. “The one that did it. He’s in police custody. Everything was caught on one of our neighbor’s ring cameras.” I didn’t respond. I couldn’t respond. “They say it was a gang initiation ritual. The guy with the tats –.”
“Mom,” I said, resting my hand on hers, hoping to stop them from shaking. “You don’t have to finish. Not right right now.” I could see her fighting back tears, but once home, I could hear her weep behind her closed door. And for weeks that’s how she fell asleep.
No matter how many days passed, it never got easier. And I could no longer look in the mirror because I could only see my face covered in my brother’s blood when I tried.
I wanted to ignore what I felt inside, but it was boiling over. I knew I was losing my mind, but I also knew my mom was at her breaking point as well. So, I kept it to myself. I was empty, but so full of rage.
But the thing that finally made me snap was when I was on my way back home from the store. As I walked down the street I heard someone blasting music from their car. And just as I passed, I could see a thick, tatted arm. One that I immediately recognized.
It was like I was possessed. All of a sudden I yanked that door open and I pulled that man out of the car with a strength I’ve never had. And before he could grab his gun, it was in my hand. But I didn’t shoot him. Instead, I lifted that gun as high as I could and brought it down with everything in me. Again and again. Beating him as he begged me to stop. And it was something about that begging, that fear in his eyes, that satisfied me. And for the first time since I lost my brother, I was happy.
He was the first person I ever killed and it changed me.
My mom screamed when she saw me walk in covered in blood — she thought it was mine at first. But something in my eyes told her it wasn’t. And she began to connect the dots. “What did you do?” she asked.
But I didn’t want a conversation, I wanted a shower. So, I walked past her, stopping at the door before disappearing into my room.
“How could they let him out?”
