ONE
TRINITY
As the refreshing breeze of this summer day wafts through the air, blowing my hair back, I keep my eyes forward as I think to myself,I’ve never felt this tired and drained. I’m tired of feeling the painful emotion of sadness, guilt that eats me alive until I believe I’ll be a shallow shell of who I used to be.
I know people think I’m weird. I’m the girl who hates music. I mean, who hates music? Me—that’s who. I do everything to not hear a single chord of music in my life.
I drive in my car in silence, I read in my room in silence, and I also do my homework in silence. To others, music is therapeutic. It relaxes them. Other people sing along and dance to the rhythm, but I freeze as my heartbeat quickens.
All the memories I have bottled away always seem to arise when I hear melodies. Others scream and dance. I just cover my ears and wish it all to go away. Don’t be fooled. I wasn’t always this way. I used to love music. I even used to sing. Music was my life. That all stopped that one sunny afternoon four years ago when not only did my happiness drain from me, but also the things that I loved.
Everything was taken from me …
I loved dancing around my room in my PJs. I especially enjoyed going to concerts with my best friends that I had. Now, they’re gone too. I pushed them away. I run from my problems now. I run from my feelings, run from pain, happiness—everything.
Those distant memories of me and my father sitting on our front porch, singing together lightly while he strummed his guitar, are something that I dream of now. My dad would call me downstairs every night. We would both sit down on the bench swing hanging out front. He would smile down at me with the smile I now miss dearly and start singing. I remember growing up and always being comforted by his voice, how soft it was and how safe it made me feel. He would always dedicate every song to me, making me feel in awe of how much he loved me. As I grew up, he taught me his ways. I grew more comfortable with my singing abilities and would sing with him for hours on end.
But that stopped the sunny afternoon they killed him. He was killed by a stray bullet.
It went right through his heart, and he was dead on the scene. When my mom heard the news, she dropped to the ground in tears, already mourning the loss of her husband. All I could do was stand there in shock. I couldn’t believe what I had heard. I couldn’t believe it till I saw him.
The entire drive to the hospital, I kept reassuring myself,He’s not dead. He can’t be. He’s probably on life support.Anything would have been better than him being dead. As Mom and I walked through those doors leading to the emergency room, I was quickly snapped out of my positive thoughts.
A poor mistake to keep my hopes up.
He’s dead. He’s really dead.
No more hugs and kisses. No more drives to school and no more songs.
As I looked down at his lifeless body, pale skin as if he’d been dead for years, I felt the life inside me drain out. It was as if my heart had been ripped out, squeezed, and laughed at in the murderer’s hand. The tightness in my chest made it really hard to breathe, causing me to run out of the depressing white hospital room. Finding the nearest trash can in the hallway, I let up all the bile arising in my throat. The bitter taste made me gag into the stinky garbage.
Not only have I hated music since that day, but I also have so much bottled-up anger toward my dad’s killers. They walked away from the scene without a single scratch, living in this world like they hadn’t killed an innocent man. Left his wife and daughter alone to fend for themselves now. I hate them. I want them to rot in jail for the rest of their lives.
We haven’t gotten justice yet, and every day that they’re not found, it feels more impossible to find them.
So impossible …
My brain tells me that we won’t ever find them, that they’ll be free to live the rest of their lives how they please—just how my dad was supposed to. It takes a lot of energy to push those thoughts aside and look at the positives.
That explains why I have trust issues, depression, and anger. All I am now is cold and distant. I don’t trust people, and I never will, although I wish I could. I cry a lot … and when I hear music, I turn it off. Too many memories, too many heartaches. I can’t bear it.
When there are reports regarding a new singer or a band on the news, I turn down the volume until it’s over. At night, sometimes, my mind drifts off into what-ifs.
What if I’d recorded his voice while he was singing? Would I remember it the same?
Would I be as sad as I am right now?
Would I be a different person?
And would I be strong enough to turn on the radio and listen to a damn song?
I know Mom is depressed. She hides behind her smiles and hugs. But I can tell otherwise. Since that day, she’s tried to do everything to make me happy, and I return the favor. She’s the only one I have. I can’t imagine—and hope I never understand—the feeling of losing a husband so brutally as she did. Some days, I find her more distant. She’s gone for most of the day, and she heads up to her room immediately after work. I’m not sure why she’s suddenly pulling back from me, avoiding me like I have a deadly disease. It hurts. But I treat her how Dad would have wanted me to.
He would have wanted me to love her just like he did …
Love this town like he did.
We live in a small town. Our medium-sized house lies on big acreage. We don’t have any crops or farm animals. My dad was just interested and loved the idea of—and I quote—“farmland and living in clean air.” I hated it here at first. No one’s around us, just one house miles away next to ours. I can see their front porch and a couple of windows clearly from my window. It’s white with black shutters, and aSoldsign is stuck in the ground, blowing in the wind. The nice elderly couple who used to live there for many years decided that they needed to downgrade.
