As It Was (COMPLETED) (wattys2023)

How Do I Live

3 months after shooting

The sun hadn't even risen yet and my parents were already unpacking our U-Haul and walking briskly up the driveway with stacks of boxes in their arms. They had hired two movers to help, as there was no way the three of us alone would be able to unpack our life from this truck before sunrise on our own. Their plan had been to beat the protesters and reporters and get everything inside before they'd even rolled out of bed in the morning.

I just hadn't been able to force myself out of the back seat.

I sat with my fingertips against the cold, dewy glass, watching my father shout an order at the two young male movers from the front porch, wiping the beads of sweat that had likely already started to dampen his forehead.

I had hated the house the moment Mom had send me the Zillow link for it. Though it was only a two bedroom, it was as big as our three bedroom back home. It was old, smack in the middle of a busy street, but it was only a few blocks from Oasis Academy, the private school Mom had enrolled me in a couple weeks ago. As I stared at it now, the huge tree extending its overgrown branch so that it hung over the roof, casting a permanent shade over the house. The very thought of getting out of the car, one of the few things of familiarity I still had left to cling to, was nauseating. I didn't want to step into that house; it was too big, too bright, and I felt as though I would be losing every memory I had of Miles back home the second I stepped through the threshold.

Catching one of the movers looking toward the car as they made their way to the truck, I finally gripped the handle in my hand and opened the door. I didn't make it far. The minute I stepped out and pressed the door shut behind me, I paused to eavesdrop on the conversation between the men.

". . .no, man. I just want to be outta here before the protesters show up and shit." one of the men, the shorter of the two with an unlit cigarette between his lips, said, slightly muffled. The other one, a few inches taller and leaning against the side of the truck, nodded and offered up a lighter.

"Feel bad for that kid though. She looks so traumatized." The taller man said and I fell back against the passenger side door, clutching an arm around my stomach.

Cigarette guy says, "I thought I was the only one who saw that. You could see it when she was at the trial too. Poor kid's entire world just got turned upside down."

"You think people can recover from shit like that? What she saw? What happened to her?" the other man asked.

I leaned forward on to my tippy toes, about as interested in hearing the response as the taller of the two movers was.

"Nah, that shit sticks with you." Cigarette guy answered. "Especially when it's your own blood inflictin' the harm. I'll pray for that girl. Callie cried when she watched the trial, but it broke her seeing that one of the victims was related to the suspects. She kept sayin', "Oh, that poor baby, may God guide her through this dark time."

I touched my index and middle finger to my lips as they trembled, threatening to spill more tears. The two men stomped out the cigarette seeing my father making his way down the driveway to them. He stopped for a moment, seeing that I'd finally forced myself out of the car, and I thought that he'd possibly walk over and hug me, offer me the comfort I so desperately needed. Instead, he bowed his head with a guilt-ridden expression and turns his back to me and stepping back into the truck to help the movers.

*

The air in the room was frigid.

It was early August, it had felt like a sauna outside, but once I'd dragged myself through the house and down the hallway to my new room, cold had crept from my toes all the way to my fingertips and hadn't left the few hours I'd been sitting in the claustrophobic space.