Here in the Second Moon

Chapter I: 187 on Summer Street

Michael's POV

I was breathing heavily. I knew something was wrong the moment I arrived at my house. It was almost like I couldn't open the front door, trying to calm myself down at the front porch. But there it was, the lock forcibly opened and my dad's cane thrown on the floor. He can't walk without pain unless using his cane. There was something completely odd about the scene. I was late from practice, and I didn't tell my parents, so I kept lying to myself, convincingly telling my mind that my nerves were altered because I didn't call to inform them about my late arrival.

I forced myself to keep going. I thought that would be the right thing to do, get in, call the cops, and hide. I never thought that I was going to find death on the other side of that door. Neither did I think that the extend of the situation was going to change my life in such drastic measure. So I got in. I could feel the sweat falling from my forehead to my nose. I cleaned it quickly; I wanted to be ready for my next move. I quietly tried to grab the heavy lamp my mom placed on the furniture peace at the entry hall. Not that a lamp and a fifteen year old could compete with a professional thief, but it gave me a sense of self-defense and a chance to fight back, or to distract, whatever I needed at the moment.

As I approached the living room, I smelled something bad. It reminded me of the many times I cut myself on accident and lick my wound to keep going. Only this time it wasn't a taste, and it was making me cry. It was dark, I didn't want to turn any lights on, I thought maybe that would eventually bring the wrong eyes to focus on me. As I walked, I hit a shoe with my foot. Only it wasn't just a shoe. It bounces back at my foot, telling me there was death on the floor. So I looked down, and there he was, my father, lying on the floor, and my mother, behind the couch as if she tried to hide from danger.

I wasn't finished with the whole concept of being an orphan, when, suddenly, the lights turn on and I see cops all over the place, telling me to put the lamp down and to get on the floor with my arms on my head. I didn't want to do it, I knew that if I laid on the floor at that specific spot, I would be facing my father's dead face right in front of me. But they didn't care. They didn't see me as innocent. After all, they have already being alerted of a "187 on Summer Street", according to the 911 call. So I put my face on the floor and followed instructions, like if that was going to change my future outcome.

I was "helped" by an officer who looked a lot like he didn't like his dinner... or his life, as a matter of fact. He had big strong hands and a white ink music note tattoo between his thumb and his index finger. I remember because I thought about doing one myself in black ink. The tattoo also had a number right next to the musical note: 01011. It looked stupid now that I think about it. It ruined the whole musician's swag.

There were so many people inside my house that day. Not even my mom and dad's wedding anniversary had so many people walking in and out of the house. I was angry, sad, confused, and nervous, all at the same time. Then Mr. Angry Cop put those handcuffs on my wrists. They felt so cold, and sounded so tight. I would never forget the sound of a closing handcuff. It sounds like hell's about to break loose, like I'm about to be a prisoner for life.