Top Peeled Back

Two

Jasmine Lewis sat on the living room couch in a foul mood. Gracie, the Lewis family's golden retriever, laid at her feet in unwavering support. For the human, lounging and watching television was a poor alternative to attending the Big Tricky concert earlier that afternoon. The dog couldn't have disagreed more.

Upon its sudden announcement, a free pop-up concert in the city park had seemed too good to be true. It turned out it was. And even though Big T was her favorite, and all her friends were going, her parents still hadn't allowed their daughter to attend. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis had cited the drinking, the drugs, the prospect of violence, and the staying-up-way-past-her-bedtime-on-a-school-night as bullet point excuses. So instead, Jasmine sat brooding in the safety of her own home watching TV in her pajamas. Currently, a junkie was murdering his dealer in an episode of a critically-acclaimed show – one of her family's favorites!

But just as the dealer's body was being dumped into a ditch, in cut a breaking news story. DEVELOPING: RAPPER MURDERED ON LIVE STREAM was affixed to the bottom of the screen with Big Tricky's face displayed next to the anchor's. Jasmine froze.

At the same time, her mother called from the kitchen, "Jazz, dinner's ready!"

Gracie sprung up at the d-word, but Jasmine only stared in disbelief at the grainy footage of her favorite rapper tied to a chair. Her phone soon began to light up with messages from her friends; none of whom were of the original fifty-seven viewers of the murderous live stream, but all of whom had attended his final concert earlier that day.

"Jasmine, come on sweetie. I don't want to wait on your father, it's going to get cold."

Through welling tears, Jasmine watched the news outlet play the video leading up to the fatal shot. She couldn't believe her blurry eyes. And when the last word Big Tricky would ever say was bleeped out, the first tear rolled down her cheek. The video stopped just before the trigger was pulled.

"Get your butt in here young lady!"

Jasmine jumped up, not at her mother's plea, but at her father's abrupt arrival home from work. He closed the door, removed his shoes, and saw her tears.

"Jasmine! Honey, what's wrong?" He rushed to the couch to comfort his distressed daughter, dropping his briefcase along the way. His work bag struck the staircase and loose papers spilled out onto the carpeted floor. Her mother then stormed into the living room, prepared to scold.

"What is this mess? Terrance, that dean has got to cool it with these late meetin—Jasmine! Honey, what's wrong?"

"S-someone killed him," amidst sobs the teenager explained and pointed to the screen. "Why would s-someone do that? He was so great, s-so talented."

The anchor reiterated what Jasmine had already learned as her parents absorbed the broadcast in silence. Their daughters' emotions flowed throughout.

"Not just killed," her father observed, "executed. Leave it to those rappers."

"Oh Jasmine," her mother comforted, "I'm so sorry."

Her father muted the TV and turned to his daughter. "It's going to be okay sweetie. It's an awful, awful thing, I know. A tragedy, for sure," he said, taking a deep breath. "But they foster so much violence in their, well, music. It looks like they don't really know what happened." He looked back at the screen and suggested, "you never know, he could have brought this on himself."

Mrs. Lewis was taken aback by her husband's coldness. "What an awful thing to say to your daughter. She's upset, Terrance. Have some damn sympathy."

"Language, Deborah! And I'm sorry, but it's all gibberish and nonsense. Thinking of them as 'great', or even 'talented' might be a bit of a stretch, don't you think?" A university band director and aspiring composer, Terrance Lewis had more of a taste for classical composition than modern stylings. "I mean, Jasmine here has much more musical talent than those...artists."

With her father's complete lack of compassion, her sadness was readily replaced by anger. She raged out of the living room, knocking over a side table along the way. Picture frames and a cinnamon candle - which had originally been lit to help calm nerves - were sent flying. The teenager stomped up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door.

"Great. You see what you did?" Mrs. Lewis sighed and followed her grieving daughter upstairs, taking account of the mess of melted wax on the floor, "that's going to be tough for you to clean up. And dinner's on the damn table, its freezing by now."

Mr. Lewis was left alone in the living room as the vacuum of emotion created an almost negative noise. He sat in the silence and stared deeply into the waxy red stain streaked across the floor. Oblivious to it all, Gracie came bounding into the room and broke the pressure. The golden retriever stood at Terrance's feet and watched him take a sad breath. Her companionship was rewarded with a butt scratch. Mr. Lewis then picked up the fallen picture frame, taking a moment to admire an aging family portrait.

His thumb traced the outline of Jasmine as a child. "Can't you stay this innocent?" Terrance asked with a heavy heart. He glanced up to the TV to see the station had switched back to their regularly scheduled programming. He turned it off. With no more scratches on the way, Gracie moved on to the odd cinnamon smell now rising from the carpet.

"Gonna need something strong for that, huh Grace?"

The dog looked up at her name with wax solidifyingon her nose and in the now-crimson fur of her snout. Terrance laughed, placedthe picture back on the up-righted table, and went to collect his scatteredpapers. Off the ground and back into his briefcase went sheet music, a packetof marching drill, and a printed page of Big Tricky lyrics.