salience

It's the twilight of early Saturday morning. My brother and I are headed to an event far away. I'm barely awake, following my brother down the back stairs, but I'd promised I'd drive him. After all, la mama and el papa need all of the sleep they can get. Lorenzo's quiet, his eyes heavy with sleep. I'm so proud of him... We've watched him come a long way since he announced to the family he didn't want to be a football player. He was sure he could get into another sport or activity, he was only a sophomore at the time. We all knew that he was only thinking about quitting because he had just blown out his right knee. Did he really want to throw it all away? No. That night seems so long ago. Here we are, a year later. He's gotten over the pain, the fear of a relapse, and gained forty pounds of muscle, thanks to genetics and a rigorous work out schedule. Only fifty more pounds to go to be considered for starting defensive line at Notre Dame. He can do it. He's got the build. Three hundred pounds seems a huge number, but if he's busting his ass at two fifty, what's fifty more, really?

We make our way out to the garage. My brother eating his two bagels, bannana, and protein shake--me feeling full just watching him. He makes eating look more like a chore than anything else: each bite taken carefully, chewed thoroughly, and swallowed with great ceremony. I unlock the car and close the garage door. All of the lights are off in the house, I made sure of that before we came outside. The cats and dogs are fed. Everyone should be able to sleep until they wake up...

I slide into the driver's seat just in time to hear my brother downing the last of his shake. The smell makes me nauseous... That thing is the equivalent of two steaks, and he's gulping it down, first thing in the morning. Ugh. Lorenzo comments on how peaceful everything looks. And it does. The world is still asleep--just the cobalt night sky fills the air. I start the ignition. The sun won't be up for another hour at least... Just as Lorenzo starts his Native American oppression vs. slavery rant for the billionth time, we hear deep laughter from the backseat. All in one instant, I see the barrel and silencer, the morning sky, and my brother's brains on the windshield. I want to scream. Cry. Hurt. Anything. But I'm numb. Before I can turn to see the man behind the gun, I feel his oppressive hand on my shoulder--his teeth by my ear as he breathes down my neck. I see my brother's slumped body on the dashboard out of the corner of my eye. Why didn't you take me?!, I scream to God in my mind. I have to stop this guy. I have to undo what he has done. Prevent. Hurt. Draw his blood. My mind stops reeling when I hear him discharge the shell. The barrel is warm on my neck from the round he used on my brother. My brother, my baby. His blood is running down the vinyl interior of the car and it's my fault. I didn't protect him. I wasn't smart enough to check the car before we got in. My laziness is the reason he's dead. I'm the reason. My head snaps forward as the man loads his weapon against my skin, and all I can think about is the twins. My twins, my babies. I feel his finger on the trigger, and I'm up. Wide awake. It's four in the morning and I'm in my bed. The only noise is my sobbing. The house is silent.