This story is not unique. It's honestly all too common.
It's 2019 in Tampa, Florida. It's summertime, and it's hot.
Jose was born in Xicoténcatl and came to this country looking for milk and honey. He loves his family more than Trump loves putting k...
Mark sits on the couch, watching the Rays game. They were up 1-0, but then Mike Tauchman knocked a single to right that scored Heredia in the top of the third, after that, Aaron Hicks laced a double to right that brought in Tauchman. There is a knock at the front door, "Can someone get that?"
Ashley is on the phone with her friend in the other room— rolling her eyes, she puts her phone down and answers the door. Two uniformed police officers stand nervously with their hands folded in front of them. She can tell they aren't bringing good news. The officer's voice wobbles as he tries to speak, "Good evening," he clears his throat, trying to sound professional, "are your parents home?"
"Hold on," Ashley hollers into the front room, "Dad, the police are here."
Mark pauses the game, "The police?" He walks to the door, "Good evening officer, is there something I can help you with?"
The policeman looks down at his boots—
God, this part sucks.
He's trying to find the strength to do his job—
I don't want to do this.
He takes a deep breath, "Are you, Mr. Wallace?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Mark Wallace?"
"Yes— what is this all about?"
The officer stumbles over his words, "Sir— we have some unfortunate news—"
Unfortunate?
What in the fuck are you saying?
The burger joint being out of curly fries is unfortunate— this is a goddamn tragedy.
It's too late now, his unfortunate words already came out of his mouth— there's nowhere to go but forward. He just needs to do what needs to be done and get it out of the way, "There has been an incident involving your son Conner."
"What sort of incident?"
"A shooting, sir."
"A shooting— is he okay?"
"Unfortunately—"
There is that goddamn word again—
"I'm sorry, he passed away before medical personnel could arrive."
God, it all sounds so cold and official—
But this is how they teach you to do it at the academy— respectful, but direct, only the facts. Mark stumbles backward in shock— catching himself on the doorframe. The words sink in. He can't feel anything. It's as if he's forgotten how to breathe. Not his beautiful boy—
Not Conner—
It's not true.
It can't be. He looks at the officers for confirmation, "No— please, no— not Conner."
The officer wants to give him a hug, "I'm sorry, sir."
Mark places his hand over his mouth to muffle his screams. They press through his fingers and out of his eyes.
Not Conner—
Jesus—
Anyone but him.
"I don't understand— he's supposed to be out on the boat with his friend."
"Apparently, there was an altercation between him and some other boys."
That doesn't make sense. Conner is a lot of things, but confrontational is not one of them.
"At some point, we'll need you to come down to the morgue to identify his body."
"What?"
The morgue?
What is happening?
This isn't real.
Not Conner.
No—
He's supposed to be home any minute.
I told him not to be late.
Where is he?
"I'm sorry— I can't imagine how hard this is— you don't have to come right away— take a moment to collect yourself."
"I need to call my wife."
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New chapters released every Monday and Friday (Chapter 18 of 28)
