Read All About It! 

Alesandra Powell

I already knew. I already knew when suddenly our house was awash with red and blue flashes, blinking in and out of existence, the sirens following close behind. In those moments before the world ends, you make a choice. You make a choice to pretend a little longer or face what’s in front of you. I chose to face it, and in the reelings months after, I wished I had savored my innocence just a little while longer, sucked on it like a lollipop and held its sweetness in my mouth before it washed away. 

In grief, some people immediately burst into tears. That was my mother. A howling, a ululating so terrible I felt like somebody had physically scooped out my intestines and plopped them on the ground. I remember thinking shutupshutupshutup because I wanted to hear what the people were saying. Daddy was on the ground, holding Mommy in his arms, but his face was blank. It’s not that he wasn’t sad–of course he was–but he was just so sad his brain had no choice but to shut itself off. 

Mia was too young then to truly grasp it, and so she was hiding in the corner of the living room, chewing on her fingernails. I remember thinking, stopthat, because Daddy and Mommy said that habit was uncouth and they’d been trying to get her to stop. 

So it was left to me. 

There were two of them, but I could not look into their eyes. Instead I stared at their badges, which would become permanently seared into my mind. I would see them in my dreams, haunting me. Glinting silver in the hazy living room light, I pressed those numbers into my brain. 1716 and 2048. 1716, 2048. 1716. 2048. 17162048. 

“We’re very sorry,” they were saying. I was pretty sure they had been repeating that for the past few minutes, but I couldn’t remember because my mother was still screaming. Howling like a wolf, a dog, the wind through bare trees. 

“What happened?” I asked. I don’t know how my mouth formed the words, only that I did because I had to. Who else would? In the months following, my parents would ask me to recount the events over and over because they said they could not remember; the only thing that they recalled was the feeling of drowning, of suffocating in their own bodies. 

The officers looked at each other. I was sure that they had probably already said this, but they repeated themselves. This, I was grateful for. “We sincerely regret to inform you that your brother–your son–” Officer 2048 cut a glance at my parents. “was unfortunately killed this evening at 6:53 pm.” 

Another scream. 

Officer 1716 spoke: “This is an open investigation, of course, but there are some concrete details. Sean was with another boy when the incident occurred, Jaiden Watson. He is currently in critical condition at Mercy West. Your brother, unfortunately, was pronounced dead on the scene.”

“Where?” I said. “I mean, what’s the scene?” At this point, Sean’s murder was only a floating thing. I didn't even know it was a murder yet. In a romanticized daze, I hoped it was a car crash or an accident of some sort. Something sad and terrible but ultimately blameless.

“At the intersection of King and Waterborough.” Officer 2048 read off a notepad. Had he forgotten the facts already?

The 7-11. That’s what was at the intersection of King and Waterborough. I knew then instantly that Sean and Kelse had gone to get slushies–red and blue mixed together to make purple–after basketball practice. Daddy and Mommy had only told him a couple of days earlier to stop. “You’ll get cavities,” Mommy scolded, but Sean had been saving his allowance and didn’t care what they said. He’s always had a sweet tooth. 

“And wait. Um.” I fiddled with the strings of my sweatshirt. I wanted to put them in my mouth, suck on the cold caps at the ends. A nervous habit. Daddy and Mommy always told me I was too old for that. “And how did it happen? I mean, Sean…you know…?” 

Officer 2048 looked at Officer 1716. He was the younger one. His blond hair gleamed under the chandelier Daddy bought Mommy last year. I could tell there was some type of gel in it, the way the strands stood and were unmoving, like a bug stuck in honey. There was a nervousness to him, the way he sat perched on the edge of the sofa like he was ready to leap off in a second. Officer 1716 was quite comfortable, settled between the couch cushions like a fat cat. He had done this before. 

“It was a shooting, Miss.” 

At that, Mommy let out another yelp, and Daddy began to rock her back and forth like a little baby. Mia scurried off into another room, her fingers still in her mouth. My mind flashed instantly to the scene, looking down on the street I’d been on so many times from a bird’s eye view. Was it like a horror movie, blood splattered everywhere? Or did it seep out of Sean like a gas leak? Did it stain the pavement, a permanent maroon stamp on pavement? 

“Who did it?” I asked. I almost chuckled then, but I held it in. For a second, if you did not hear everything that came before except for Officer 1716’s last statement and my question, it sounded like we were playing the game Clue. That was Sean’s favorite. 

Silence. I couldn’t tell how long it went on, only that it was noticeable. Even my parents seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the answer so that they could decide whether to descend into madness again. I succumbed to my craving and tucked the sweatshirt strings into my mouth, chewing on the corded fabric. In my periphery, I could feel the officers looking at each other. There was the fluttering of notebook paper. 

Then– “We’re still figuring out the details of that, Miss. Like we said, it’s an open investigation.” 

They left soon after that, although I couldn’t tell you how much time passed between that and the door closing with a soft click. Red and blue flickered again–how patriotic–but no sirens, and for a brief moment after they rolled out of the driveway, it felt as if nothing had happened.

Distended in time, like we were balancing on a tightrope, maybe we were just waiting for Sean to get home for practice. It was not unusual that he was late. Sometimes he got caught up talking with friends or stayed after to practice some more. Mommy would call him then, “The food is getting cold!” She’d snap. “We’re not waiting for you.” But we all knew that she was lying and we’d wait for as long as it took until he walked through the door. 

But, as it happened, we could not exist on that tightrope for long. The silence before the storm. I almost knew it, sensed that something was coming. There was a creeping up my spine, the sensation of a creature sneaking up behind me. 

Then the phone rang, and for the next four weeks, it did not stop. 

**

READ ALL ABOUT IT! 

In bold, black, Times New Roman, 12 pt. font, was the end of my brother’s life, nestled among stock market columns and the quickest way to get abs before the summer time. His picture was, for some reason, in black and white, even though the original was not. They’d pulled it from a clip from one of his basketball games, a snapshot of a small angry moment during his championship game. I wondered why they’d chosen that one, one that strayed so far from who he is. Was. Why choose him shouting when he never really did? Why choose him upset when he rarely was. I flipped through the newspaper and watched as the rest of the world moved on. 

Senate passes new bill! 

Kanye West spotted leaving ex-wife’s house–could they be rekindling? 

Wildfire still blazes on West Coast 

It was strange, I thought, among the cloistering, apologetic flowers that covered every surface of our house. Daisies, roses, sunflowers, peonies, orchids, bluebells, marigolds, lilac, tulips. Sorry’s attached to each one, printed on the respective notecards of the florists’ shops. Mommy and Daddy didn’t know, but I’d been throwing out two bouquets a day. They were starting to die, and their scent made me want to vomit. Saccharine and putrid like a baby’s breath. Matter of fact, I think those were in there too. 

I glanced down at the table, where Sean’s funeral pamphlet sat, unassuming. On this, my parents put our last family Christmas photo on it, zoomed in on his face. 

He was wearing a white sweater. He was complaining in the car ride to J.C. Penny about it, I remembered. “It’s itchy,” he’d muttered to me in the backseat.

“Mine too.” I scratched my neck, pulling at the wool chafing against my skin. “Plus, I hate corduroy.” I looked down at the ugly brown pants Mommy had all picked out for us and made a face. “Why does she want us to be matching?” 

That was last year, when I was thirteen and Sean was fifteen. Mia was only three years old then and was snoring away in her carseat. Daddy and Mommy were talking in the front, but they were too far away to hear or care, so I stared out the window and watched raindrops trickle down the glass. 

That was then, and this was now, though. As much as I wanted to exist in the past, the present kept pulling me forward, like a badly-behaved dog on a leash. “Rest in Power” the pamphlet read. It angered me. 

Sean wasn’t a martyr. He didn’t deserve to be lumped in, just “another one” who’s story would be hot for a second, reposted on people’s social medias, name cried out in rallies, but quickly fading out of existence in a few months. He was not just a piece of a revolution, and it made my skin crawl. Comebackcomebackcomeback, my body, my bones, my cells screamed. I promise…I didn’t know what I’d promise. My mind had been searching for something–anything–I could barter with to bring Sean back. I crumpled the pamphlet and tossed it across the room. This isn’t real. 

Would it be bad to not go to my own brother’s funeral? I thought as I rose from the kitchen table and tossed out the Eldridges’s petunias. The petals were brown now. 

I had nothing to do now except to sit out on the back porch, watching winter fade and spring begin. 17162048. Slushy snow was melting into brown grass. 17162048. School wasn’t an option right now–according to Mommy and Daddy. That didn’t seem like the best choice to me. Now I had to sit in this house, the second scene of the crime, and try not to close my eyes. I knew that if I went to school, I would be fine. I would complete the assignments, sit in class, raise my hand. It was the others that wouldn’t be fine. 

Why isn’t she crying? They’d whisper. 

She doesn’t even look sad? They would say behind their pale, white hands. White. White. White hands that were related to the ones that pulled the trigger? I could not help now but zero in on it, something that once was so normal to me that it was in the background of my mind. Black and white, brown and white. 

I would be caged in by their expectations, an animal in a zoo. “Look here!” and a flash of a camera. “His own sister isn’t even grieving! Could she somehow be involved in his murder?” 17162048. I shook my head. That was impossible. I looked up. The sun was weak, like a runny yoke, but I stared at it nevertheless until my eyes started to burn and leak. My worst fear was sleep. I was running on coffee, energy drinks, caffeinated tea, sour candies–anything to keep me awake. Daddy and Mommy used to say I wasn’t allowed to have coffee, but that was before Sean. Now we were in the after. They might as well have been dead too; I couldn’t remember the last time I saw them do more than shuffle around in a strange, ghost-like state.

My body was slowly crumbling. Sometimes I saw Sean, standing in the kitchen drinking a protein shake, playing basketball in the driveway, lounging in the tv room flipping through channels. Then I would see his body in the hallway, in a pool of scarlet, holes in his body so gaping I could see the hardwood through them. Those were the worst of all. My head would begin to buzz like static on cable, my ears ringing like cymbals. 

I wanted to distract myself on my phone, but it had been pinging for weeks.
Oh my gosh Amara i’m so sorry 
Please please please if you ever need anything you know u can always text me
I’m so sorry amara i loved sean so much he was the best 

So there I was, in a wooden rocking chair, watching the snow melt. The breeze was cool against my cheeks, and there it was–the pull on my eyelids, the sweet, stinging desire to close them. I rolled my shoulders back. No. 

“Ama?” The back door swung open, and Mia stepped out. Her fingers were in her mouth; I hadn’t bothered to tell her to stop. Her bare feet padded softly on the blue deck as she walked towards me. She crawled into my lap. I let her, swept a hand over her frizzy curls. When was the last time I washed it? I couldn’t remember. 

“I’m hungry,” she said. So I got up, took her hand, and brought her to the kitchen. We were out of Annie’s mac & cheese–that was last week’s dinner. Dino Nuggets were the week before. The fridge was horrifyingly bare, wilted cilantro in the corner, questionable cheese in one of the drawers. 

Resignedly, I smeared together a peanut butter & jelly sandwich for Mia and sliced it into triangles. “Come,” I said and sat her in front of the tv and turned on Curious George. The cartoon sounds soothed me, washed over me, and once I saw that she was distracted, I turned the corner and sagged against the wall. Breathebreathebreathe.. It was a useless mantra because there was an avalanche in my chest, something so terrible, neverending, and destructive that I could not escape it. 

** 

“Mommy?” The bedroom door creaked as I pushed it open. Darkness met me, curtains drawn close, an unmade bed. Glasses on the bedside tables, crumpled soda cans, dirty dishes. “Daddy?” I said again, and he emerged from the attached bathroom. 

He’d never looked older. It was as if in a matter of weeks, his hair had turned gray. Purple and blue bags sagged underneath red-rimmed eyes and his clothes, crumpled, hung off his body. “Amara?” He was almost surprised to see me. Had he forgotten? I swallowed my hurt. 

“The fridge is empty.” I could not think of anything else to say. He nodded but I knew he didn’t hear me; not really. I shuffled my feet. “Where’s Mommy?” Daddy pointed to the bed. “What?” 

“There,” he finally spoke, and his voice cracked like glass.

I hadn’t even noticed her. I simply thought it was just a rumple in their comforter. And maybe that’s all she was now, a crumpled, empty shell of a person, shrinking into her mattress until she was gonegonegone. 

In the greige light, I could barely make out her motionless figure. Mommy was an immovable blob, and I was shocked by the strike of lightning that shot through me at her stagnance. Had she even wondered this whole time who was taking care of Mia, taking care of the whole house? I’d been fielding phone calls for weeks, from aunts, uncles, and hungry reporters who wanted an exclusive from the Johnson family: How did we feel? Were we angry? Had we talked to Officer Smith? Are we in contact with Jaiden Watson’s family? Had we started a GoFundMe? 

I sighed, careful to keep my eyes open. No point in sulking. Mommy couldn’t help it–she’d lost a son. But a tiny voice piped up in my head. Didn’t you lose a brother, too? “The funeral home called earlier today,” I said into the air. “They wanted to confirm how many people?” 

Clinging on the doorframe, my knuckles grew white as I waited for an answer. The clock on the wall ticked, the floorboards creaked beneath my feet. Onetwothreefourfive… 

Saturday. I’d washed my hair the night before, sectioned it into two braids. My black homecoming dress hung on the backdoor of my closet. Too short for an occasion like this but it felt wrong, shopping for my brother’s funeral. The air in the house was like sludge after a rainstorm. Moving slowly, dirty. It might stain. Sitting on Mia’s princess bed, I braided her hair in silence, tying pink bobbles at the ends at her request. 

Sleep came to me in seconds last night, spurts of exhaustion. Time was syrupy in the darkness, and I fought against the sweet, tantalizing pit of slumber. I kept hearing things. I saw things. Sean, Jaiden, 1716 and 2048. They peered around corners, lurked in the shadows. In a way, they’d become my companions. When they weren’t haunting me, I wondered where they’d gone and when they were coming back. 

“Ama?” Mia tapped my hand. “You’re hurting me.” 

My hand, white-knuckled, was locked around her braid. I let go, and it seemed to fall back against the nape of her neck in slow motion. “Sorry.” 

It was a miracle Mommy and Daddy were dressed. Standing in the kitchen, clutching mugs of coffee, it was the first time I’d seen them awake, wearing something other than sweatpants. They were sloths, moving so slowly you might have thought they were in some sort of time warp. Haggard, limp, gray, they feigned normalcy as they gathered pamphlets, flowers, a crumpled eulogy in trembling hands. 

“Hi,” I murmured. “I got Mia ready.” 

Mommy nodded, tears streaking down her face, leaving white trails through brown makeup. Daddy sniffled. 

I bit my lip. 17162048.

In the car, it was silent, the rain outside muffled into background noise. Mia held a stuffed rabbit in one hand, the other thumb in her mouth. Mommy held the eulogy in her hands, dotted with tear stains. Mummering over and over again, her fingers traced the handwritten words, only she never made it to the end of the page. She just kept reading the beginning, pausing in the middle, then starting over. 

I couldn’t bear to watch her. Outside, the pavement blurred into a smear of gray, and I counted the yellow dashes through the raindrops. My mind could not hold onto anything else. Newspapers, interviews, calls, texts–it was all piling up in my head. 

Dear Douglas Family, 

We are incredibly sorry for your loss. On behalf of the ABC network, we’d like to extend an offer for an exclusive interview to speak about your experience. It would air 3/27 at 6 p.m. Our team is available to speak to you about any concerns or questions you may have. Again, we are very sorry for your loss. 

Amara, are you okay? It’s just that u haven’t been at school, which i totally understand obviously but i just wanted to make sure

Bile rose in my throat like a stream of fire. Ohgodohgodohgod. I pressed my hand against my mouth, my forehead against the window, savoring the cool surface. 

Breathebreathebreathe17162048breathebreathebreathe. 

Daddy pulled the car into the parking lot, and there they were. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. Dread sunk in my stomach. Reagan Funeral Home. The white and gold plaque mocked me from across the lot. Your brother’s dead your brother’s dead your brother’s dead it said. “Come on,” Daddy said. I reached over and unbuckled Mia’s seatbelt. 

“Let’s go,” I whispered to her, and she slipped out, limp in my arms. I trudged across the slick pavement, Mia on my hip. 

“Oh, girls!” I froze. I turned, and there was Aunt Michelle, her face scrunched in grief. “I am so, so sorry. Come here.” She held her arms out expectantly, and I thrust Mia into them. I couldn’t stay, not here, not now.

I stood in the doorway of the funeral home, the organ lilting in a mockingly beautiful song, watching family, friends, and strangers file in, dressed in black like little ants. My mind bounced like a pinball, overwhelmed, frazzled. Everything was catching up to me–the coffee, my avoidance, my parents’ abandonment. For the first time in weeks, a sob caught in my throat, a fish in a net, thrashing, begging to be released. 

In those moments before the world ends, you make a choice. You make a choice to pretend a little longer or face what’s in front of you. 

I chose to pretend, the crowd behind me as I walked away, and in the reelings months after, I wished I had stepped inside, held the pain, the anger, the bittersweet in my mouth before it faded away.