Just Breathe Anthology Read online

  The older police officer stands, “Before you leave the station, you need to prepare yourself for the media. They’re going to be everywhere for the next couple of weeks. I know you’re good people, but they are about to turn your life into hell the minute you step outside.”

  He was right. Only a couple steps through the police station doors and flashes start going off inches from my face. Reporters scream insane questions. Did your brother show any signs of what he planned to do? Did you know your son was a murderer?

  That question right there is when the pain of what Milo had done moved from my heart to my brain. My brother, my best friend, the boy who shares my last name, just killed people. He had a gun pointed right at me. It doesn’t make any sense. My brother would never hurt anyone and that is what I scream into the camera that’s almost touching the tip of my nose. Before the tears start to fall, my dad pushes me into the car, trying to keep the only child he has left safe.

  On the car ride home, I still feel the intense need to text Milo to make sure he’s alright. I even type it out in our text messages but stop myself before I hit send. He’s gone. I try to catch my breath, but my lungs feel frozen and my heart aches. My brain can’t process all this at once. The only thing that matters to me at this moment is that I will never see him again.

  I still can’t believe this is my reality. My heart is broken. It feels as if it has been ripped from my body entirely.

  The police car turns onto our road but doesn’t get far. There are so many media trucks we can’t even get to our house. As we sit still in the middle of the street, Mom looks at dad and says, “Shawn, our boy didn’t do this. He wouldn’t.” Ignoring her words, the car inches slowly until we are in our driveway, stuck, surrounded by vultures. These people who don’t know us have their finger pointed right at us, waiting to place the blame.

  I don’t even know how many casualties there were or if any were my friends. As soon as I get inside my home, I run to my room to see who was lost. Oh God, the other families. He wouldn’t. I pull out my phone as the text messages start flooding in. My mouth falls open, and I sob. Unknown phone numbers, tons of them, cussing at me, calling me a murderer.

  Not one of the messages were any of my friends checking on me because I lost my brother today. I get it, though. He caused every bit of this. We’re the bad people. It isn’t going to matter that we had no clue something was about to go wrong or that we lost a part of us. The more I think about the whole situation, the more I know in the place where my heart used to reside that Milo committed murder. He wasn’t supposed to be in the senior hall. He pointed a gun at me and didn’t pull the trigger. He never would have killed his own sister, right? From this point forward, I can’t deny that he was the shooter. There’s evidence, and part of it is that I’m alive.

  I make my way into the living room where my parents are watching the television in pure horror as the media tears our family to shreds. “How could the parents of Milo Kent not know that he was a cold-blooded murderer?” the local news anchor asks. My mom leaves the room and runs up the stairs. I take her seat next to my father who drapes his arm around my shoulders. I rest my head on him silently as they reveal that fifteen students were killed and dozens more injured.

  Chapter Two

  Yesterday was the last day of my life. I open my eyes to a different world, one I don't recognize. Hate has never been in my heart, yet today I'm drowning in it. I’m no longer questioning whether Milo committed the unthinkable. Today, I’m angry that he would hurt anyone. Pissed off that we’re left to face the consequences. Did he not think about any of us? Our parents are being tormented and described as monsters.

  “Don’t worry about me, brother, you’ve left me with nothing,” I say to my ceiling. Everything’s a mess. “Since you left us I’ve collected our mother off the floor more times than I care to count. You’ve thrown us into a war zone, and I surrender.” I don’t want to show my face outside this house. It’s going to happen. I have to attend my ex-boyfriend’s funeral. Scott was always a friend to you, Milo. What the hell was wrong with you?

  Being bullied was never an obstacle Milo had to face. As a sophomore with an older sister, he had friends of all ages. Milo had a huge personality, one that everyone enjoyed. Sadly, that's not what people will remember. Doing anything for anyone is one thing that our parents instilled in us from the beginning. Along with my parents, I'm grasping to find any red flags we must have missed. Nothing. So far, our hands are as empty as our hearts. I've got no one to blame but him. He was a happy fifteen-year-old sophomore. Sure, he was moody as hell, but what teenage boy isn’t?

  After two days spent in my room wanting to shut myself out of this cruel world, the weight of grief is heavy and exhausting and I'm struggling to function. I turn on the hot water and step into the shower. Being numb on the outside doesn’t prevent waves of emotion from pulling me under. I slide down the wall and sit in the bathtub, letting the water pound the top of my head. Nothing eases the pain inside. Instead of wanting to be alone, I yearn for my parents’ company.

  Once dressed with my wet hair pulled back, I swing open my bedroom door to head downstairs and freeze at the sight of my brother staring back at me. The photo was taken last year at the end of his soccer season when he scored the winning goal. I snap. By the time I'm standing at the bottom of the stairs, my hands are full. I couldn't take looking at another picture. I pile them facedown and walk into the kitchen like I didn't just remove my brother from the memories on the wall.

  Sitting at the kitchen table is a woman who has aged several years in the last forty-eight hours. Dark circles rim her red, bloodshot eyes; she doesn't look like she's slept at all. My dad, on the other hand, has a scowl on his face with his tight fists laying on the table. That’s the thing about grief: it never looks the same twice. Sometimes it’s the overwhelming feeling that your heart won’t ever beat with the same rhythm. The three of us sit around the table staring at Milo’s empty chair.

  Lost in our thoughts, we all jump at the sound of our doorbell. We exchange looks but they don’t move. So, I get up, kicking the extra chair across the room. My rage is trying to break free, needing to escape this shell of a body. The same body that is now standing at the door in front of Ashley.

  I’ve missed my best friend. We are usually inseparable but I haven’t spoken with her since she got off the bus after the shooting. Ashley’s ready smile is missing. She doesn’t wrap me in her arms to comfort a friend who lost their baby brother or at least embrace as friends who just survived a massacre.

  Pain shoots through me. I thought I was numb to anything except the anger Milo had left me with, so the pain is a surprise. Ashley doesn’t offer me comfort, but I can show her I am still there for her.

  “Hey Ash. You ok?” Standing with her arms crossed, Ashley doesn’t look like she wants to be here. She refuses to make eye contact.

  “I came here to talk to you, but you have to know this is difficult for me.” She swallows and shifts from foot to foot. “Scott’s mom knows you’re planning to come to the funeral.” She bites her lip. I can tell she doesn't want to continue, but opens her mouth and tries to speak anyway.

  I interrupt, assuring her that is exactly what I was planning on doing.

  She lays her hand against my chest, stopping me from finishing my thoughts. “She doesn’t want you to come.”

  I feel as if she has smacked me across the face. What? Why? The realization of what is happening hits me. It’s our fault Scott’s parents are planning their son’s funeral, so I can’t pay my respects. I hear my gasp for air but I never feel it going into my lungs. My chest is numb. Not only my heart, but all of it. This nightmare has taken the breath out of me.

  Ashley continues to deliver blow after blow. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I wanted someone to break the news to you in the nicest way possible. I thought it might take the sting out of the punch, so to speak. Lowen, that’s not all. The school board wants to wait until after all the funerals are over before having graduation. The principal and school board are going to ask you not to attend.”

  I start backing away, staring at her blankly. I hear my mom tell her it’s time she leaves. I don’t feel anything, not even the tears that drip down my face.

  Screaming.

  I finally feel something; the vibration in my throat rumbles through me. Needing the sensation of feeling, I keep doing it. Both parents wrap their arms around me while I lay in the foyer, screaming for my life. The life Milo stole from me when he stole the lives of others. I wail until my voice is gone and I’m too exhausted to continue. My dad lifts me and carries me to the couch.

  “Try and take a nap, Lowen,” he whispers as he kisses me on the cheek. Darkness takes hold and drags me under.

  Chapter Three

  It took my parents over a week to find a funeral home willing to conduct Milo’s service. All the places in our small town were too busy to take on any more. One of them even told my parents that they refused to hold a service for a cold-blooded killer. My brother's funeral arrangements were kept a secret but somehow the media and protesters found their way.

  We arrived in chaos to say our goodbyes to Milo.

  Standing next to my brother’s casket will be the last time we’ll ever be a family of four. My dad pulls up three chairs for us to sit with him.

  We ask Milo questions that will go unanswered. Why? What could we have done? Where did we go wrong? Did you know how much you were loved? Silence. Most of the tears shed came from a mother who lost half of her soul.

  I start to walk out of the room until I realize I’m leaving alone. Handling my grief is painful but watching my parents grieve is gut-wrenching. My mom lays her head against the wooden casket and my father is trying to get her to let go. I walk to her. Resting my head on her back, I feel the vibration of her sobs as my dad embraces both of us. When we finally depart into the sea of media, it’s hand in hand.

  Sunglasses hide our eyes; we're ashamed to show how much losing him is hurting. On the drive home, my emotions change quickly. It's incredible how one minute I'm heartbroken and the next I'm so mad I want to punch something. They say there are various stages of grief. I think I’m on my second or third run through all of them—it’s a damn vicious cycle.

  Taking my time entering the red front door to a house that was always known as the home of the perfect family, I realize it will now be known for another statistic. There aren’t trays of food waiting. There aren’t friends calling to see if we need anything. The three of us understand why people of the town have scattered. We are sorry from the bottom of our hearts. We get it. Doesn’t mean that it doesn’t freaking hurt like hell.

  My dad clears his throat. “Are we ready?”

  We prepared a statement over the last couple of days. It’s difficult putting your emotions into an apology letter when you know that nothing you say is going to make a difference.

  My mom turns to my father and fixes the collar on his plaid shirt and then lays her head on his chest. Silence.

  The three of us stand on our front porch while my father reads a prepared statement. “The Kent family would like to apologize to the victims, the injured, and everyone affected by this tragedy. Horror, shame, and confusion about that Monday morning doesn’t come close to half of the feelings streaming through us right now. We’re not going to stand here and defend our son or make excuses. That is one thing I want to make very clear. My son was guilty, and we are not going to downplay what he did. As his parents, we understand we are under attack for not seeing this coming. Believe me when I say we are questioning every decision we have ever made. We are eagerly trying to find any answers possible. To date, we have not seen one single thing that would give any explanation as to why Milo would have done this. We stand before you today a broken family, mourning our son but also aching for all of you. As an active member of our community, I don’t have the words to express the guilt that my entire family is feeling. We are working side by side with the local police agencies, and we’ll continue to hand over everything or do anything necessary to provide answers.”

  As I watch my father finish his speech to the media lining our front porch, I have to shield my eyes from all the flashes going off. We interlace our fingers and walk back into our home. My mother retreats to her bedroom, leaving my dad and me to stare at each other. Silence is all that is left. Rehashing our entire lives isn’t doing any good.

  My dad answers his phone again. We have received several phone calls from the school explaining that they think it’s best that I come by and get my diploma tomorrow morning instead of walking across the stage in a couple days. If I'm honest, I know that would be the most comfortable choice but I have worked my entire life for graduation. No one can take my accomplishments away from me. I’m going in with my head held high and getting that piece of paper with my name on it. Then I’m walking out and never looking back.

  “Lowen, let's talk about graduation. Are you sure you want to go?” Dad asks like he hasn’t been asking this question all week.

  I don’t even think about what he is asking before I shake my head and try to explain. “I’m not changing my mind. I have a 3.9 GPA and I worked too hard for it. I’ve been dreaming of the night you could all watch me walk across that stage and graduate with honors. I know I’m not welcome and I don’t blame anyone for that. I’m going. End of story.”

  “You deserve to graduate, Lowen. I just need to make sure we’re doing the right thing,” he explains.

  “Dad, nothing is ever going to be right in our lives again,” I say flatly.

  Chapter Four

  My mom knocks once and then enters my room. “Do you need any help?” I immediately hand her the necklace I’ve been trying to put on. My hands are shaking too badly to work the clasp. “You know, you don’t have to go. We don’t want you to have to endure anything more than you already have.”

  She is right. I shouldn’t go, but I refuse to give in. It is me graduating, not Milo. What Milo did is on him. Loving someone who made an unthinkable choice doesn’t make you a bad person, it just leaves you with a wounded heart. My heart hurts for every person affected by this tragedy. It's not that I think we deserve sympathy, but maybe a tiny bit of understanding for the loss of a brother or a child. Our hearts are barely beating too.

  I put on my funeral dress. We all have that one outfit hanging in the back of our closet that only gets worn on the darkest of days. Today, as I graduate, I say goodbye to the person I loved and to the friends I used to have. We all unknowingly take things for granted, giving meaning to the phrase ‘live life to its fullest’. I can’t live in this town anymore. I need to exist where no one knows my family. Milo may not have shot me that day but he stole my soul.

  I’m on my last ride to the high school. I’ve always worn the colors proudly, but today I wear black—the color of my heart. My parents keep glancing up at each other, waiting for the other one to put a stop to me attending. I already mourn the girl I was before; this is only going to make it worse.

  The minute I walk into the gymnasium with my head held high, I tell myself to go back to being numb; it’s for the best. The numbness has worn off and shame is consuming me whole. I should be too ashamed to show my face, but here I am.

  Six crosses line the stage, representing the lives of students who should be making the walk tonight. One of those is for Scott. Even though he was an ex, we were still best friends. There aren’t many memories in the last four years that don’t have Scott or Ashley in them. Scott and Ashley were always at the house; they were like family. Milo had mercy for Ashley and me, but why not Scott? That’s a question I will always have.

  “How can she show her face?” Just because my head is not hanging and I’ve not turned around and walked back out the doors doesn’t mean that I don’t hear what people are saying as I pass. What aches in the left side of my chest worse than the words are the sounds, gasps, and stares. I’m keeping the whole resting bitch face in play until I exit.

  I walk to stand in the line, waiting for this charade to start. I don’t take pictures with my friends; Ashley made it clear that I have none left. I simply stand there, staring at the lockers while my peers find their place in line. The hustle is going on all around me and I refuse to falter.

  The music starts, and the line moves down the hall and out into the gymnasium. They have the march planned out for us to walk in front of most of the crowd. I’m halfway to my seat when I’m suddenly lying flat on my face on the floor. I look over and see a guy from school with his foot sticking straight out. He’s not even looking at me. He’s looking straight ahead like I haven’t just fallen on my face. I didn’t hold the line up either—they just walked around. I get up at the end of the line and head towards the middle of the floor. I stop counting chairs. I know which of them is mine. It’s the only chair folded and laying on the floor instead of sitting like the 200 others. I’m the last one to take a seat.

  The speakers for our graduation all mention the ones who should be with us. The families of the six get their diplomas for them. They each get a standing ovation and a moment of silence. I hurt for the six just as the others do. I miss them, feel horrible for their families, and am grieving for them. None of those feelings are any different than the 199 students sitting here. The only difference is no one believes I deserve to have the same feelings.

  The names are starting to flow. Finally, I’m about to walk the stage. My parents are watching for the only time they will see a child graduate. Lowen Miley Kent. There’s an uproar, but it’s not applause. I’m sure my parents are clapping but they are drowned out by the boos. As I walk off stage, I see my parents making their way to the back doors where I plan to meet them.