Redwood High

Preface:

I never understood death. Not fully. I mean when you see someone you know they are bound to die. That’s a given. No one lives forever. Unless you are a vampire and we all know those don’t exist. It’s just one of those facts no one talks about because they aren’t dying at the moment.  Death is just a concept no one really understands until it’s occurring at that very moment. And even then you have no idea what it truly means.

It happened with my parents. They were murdered.

I had come back from an 8th grade “End of the Year gala.” That’s what Karen’s mother called it. The rite of passage to high school. There was a bonfire, food, and typical young, meaningless adolescent drama. Karen’s mom dropped me off at home. I had called my mom several times but she didn’t pick up. I noticed both of my parents’ cars in the driveway.  I figured they might’ve been sleeping.

“Thank you,” I told Karen’s mom.

She smiled and waved. “No problem.”

It was around eight o’clock. There was a crescent moon shining high above in the sky, casting its ghostly glow in the midnight sky. Our house wasn’t big- two bedrooms, 2 baths. A house that really shouldn’t have attracted unwanted attention, especially since it was smack dab in the middle of the suburbs.

“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I called out. The light above the stair way was on. Everything else was off. I blindly made my way towards the kitchen. I don’t remember why I was heading to the kitchen. That detail always flies by my head. What I do remember is what happened next.

I found the light switch and flipped it on. It was right next to the entryway that led into the living room. I turned it on, walked two steps and slipped on something. I banged my head pretty hard against the tiled floor. I heard the sickening crunch echo in the empty kitchen.  My vision blurred and I laid there for what felt like hours. Something was seeping in to my thin black T-shirt. I lifted my hands. Red.

I somehow lifted myself up. I used the kitchen island to help balance myself. I saw a body. Dark blonde hair was matted with red. Mom. It was mom. Why was she sleeping? No. Not sleeping.  I gasped and put my hand to my mouth, which I instantly regretted. It was covered in blood. I slipped on a pile of my mother’s blood.  I turned and saw another body on the other side of the kitchen island. Dad.  A knife was protruding from his chest.

I screamed.

They were dead. Both of them, dead. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. That was when the front door opened. A man came in the kitchen. I recognized him.

“Hank?” Hank was my mom’s co-worker. Why was he here?

“Oh my God, Grace are you ok?”

I fell.

***

*6 weeks later*

I disliked planes. I’ve seen enough plane crash videos on YouTube to know that it could happen anytime. Unexpectedly. I sat in the middle of a sleeping old lady and another unaccompanied minor. He was about 8, entranced with some mobile app game.

“Attention passengers we should be arriving at LAX in approximately 30 minutes. So sit back, relax, and thank you for flying with American Airlines.”