When The Sun Rises | ✔

02 | Pipe Dreams of the Past

Chapter 02 | Pipe Dreams of the Past

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        May 24, 2018. Nine years since Daddy was taken from me and the anniversary of the worst fucking day of my life.

        This is the first thought to cross my mind when I wake up. I ignore the bird perched on a branch somewhere chirping at the morning and the sunlight streaming through my window painting my eyelids white, and I keep my eyes closed. Anything to slow time down, even if it's only in my head, because when I open my eyes it will all be real.

        He would still be gone and I would still be in foster care, and for nearly a decade at that. Just another black body filtering through another system. Living with a borrowed family.

        Thoughts of him press against my brain, expanding like foam until every corner of my mind is coated in millions of little bubbles, each holding a memory from my childhood.

        Memories of normalcy and happiness. Of riding my bike in the street, eating ice cream after school, and going to Father-Daughter dances. Memories of Friday nights spent huddled over cups of red Kool-aid and an open watermelon – fighting over the juicy center and spitting seeds into paper towels.

        I clench my eyes tighter, tears pricking at the corners, but without even the comfort of knowing the punk ass officer who killed my father was held accountable, the loss is almost unbearable. To know that the coward behind the badge and gun is somewhere enjoying his freedom to live, breathe, and exist without consequence pushes me to a level of frustration that can never be adequately expressed.

        Since the shooting happened before body cams were a thing and nobody had been around to witness or record it, the court relied solely on the officer's statement and out of focus dash-cam footage.

        And according to him, my father – who used to take the time to catch and release lizards he spotted in our house – aggressively reached for his weapon. A detail I didn't find out about until years later when I researched the case for myself. 

        I didn't speak for three weeks after that.

        To this day, I wish I could show the bitch in blue my pain. Ball the globe of a thing up until it fits in the palm of my hand and chuck it at his face, leaving a bruise so big and permanent that he can't walk past a reflective surface without thinking of me. Bottle up my tears and have them shipped to his doorstep by the gallon, gather the pieces of myself I've lost since that night and fashion a mangled corpse to dump at the foot of his fucking bed.

        Tattoo a picture of my father on the insides of his eyelids so he can't so much as blink without seeing his face, staring into my father's eyes when he seeks solace in his dreams. Dilute his tap with liquor so he can't shower, wash his hands, or take a sip of water without being reminded of what he did.

        Maybe then he'd know a fraction of what I've felt and recognize that there were consequences for his actions even if he hadn't been the one to bear the brunt of them.

        Because his crime went far beyond murder. He stole infinitude. He stole moments and memories and midnight trips to 7-Eleven for Polar Bear Icees. He stole lessons and lineages and listening to old gospel songs on the way to school in the mornings.

        Maybe the loss would've been easier if we'd seen it coming and had a chance to say goodbye. If he came home from the doctor one day and broke the news to us and we got to go with him to his treatments and appointments.