Suburban War I

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Some people have moments. They can look outside a window or sit on a rocking chair or paint a masterpiece and they can have a moment. In this moment, everything comes together for them. They see the sun setting into the horizon and they understand just how beautifully round the Earth is. They can catch themselves in between laughs and appreciate the joys they get to experience in life. They get to see their children grow up in the grass and catch a glimpse into the purity of youth. They get to look in a mirror and like what they see. They get to drive around town to melt into the rhythms of their favorite song blasting through their speakers and finally get to feel some sort of inner peace. These are the ultimates of the human existence. These are moments, because they are fleeting, but they stay forever as memories. These are the moments that either define you or ruin you. I used to be able to have moments like these. In those moments, I felt my most human. In those moments, I still felt alive. Now, I just feel dead. No sun set, no lighthearted laughter, no youthful spirit, no mirror, and no good song could ever bring me back to life again. I don't think I could ever be brought to life. Physically, I am alive. I wave hello and I cough out tar and I bite my nails and I pull out my hair, but I am still dead. Every time I closet eyes, all I see is death.
A pool of blood.
Not my blood. Not my death. But, it's still a pool of blood.
There is no body, just blood. Dark, thick blood.
And I am the only person that knows what happened. The police, to this day, don't know the truth. All they know is that a young boy died. They didn't have sufficient evidence to look for anything or anyone. All they saw was a body and an outraged community. So, they cleaned up the body quickly. They ruled it a murder, but promised the community that they had run the killer out of town. They never spoke to the press, but the press still managed to get a story. It's hard to keep secrets in the suburbs, and money can be stuffed into mouths to make sure they're shut forever. No one cared what happened to the boy. They only cared to hear that the killer was gone. They believed the lies they heard only to feel some sort of calm.
The only time anyone cared about the boy was the night he died. On that night, people were having dinner and holding hands and drinking beer, but they all stopped to see the news about the dead boy on television.
I stopped to look, too.
His face was smiling at me, frozen forever in a picture of his I've never seen before. The caption read "Local Boy Found Shot and Killed". They didn't release his name or a name of a suspect. They kept it ambiguous so parents wouldn't worry and cause an uproar. The suburbs were supposed to be safe. Boys weren't supposed to get killed.
In a bold move, the police ruled it a murder. They said they tracked the gunman out of the city and that he was now the next county's problem. But, these are all futile details. All that matters to me, even so many months later, is the pool of blood.
After seeing the boy's face on television, I rushed to the scene of the crime. Right near my favorite park. Right near the man made hill I could see the stars from. By the time I got there, all that was left was a pool of blood. The police had collected their "evidence". The coroner had taken his body. The journalists had gotten their story. All that was left was his pool of blood.


Seth Stevens, a 17 year old boy from the suburbs, was murdered one night. He was shot dead. He was murdered. He died, and despite their feigned interest in his sudden demise, no one really cared. They cared for their safety, they cared for their children, but they did not care for Seth. But, I cared. I still do. Because I know the truth. It's a truth I can't escape and his face is an image I can't forget.
Seth had died and his heart had stopped beating and his blood had crawled out of his body onto the pavement and he had died. And everyone thought he was killed by a random psycho.

But, little do they know.
Little do they know that the murderer still lives within the trees and inside their homes.
Little do they know I know who did it.
And I'm ready to tell everyone the truth.
Even if it kills me.

(To Be Continued)





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