Three Shots

Part 1

The things we can and can’t remember have a certain way of taking a toll on us. It’s always the things we want to remember the least which take up considerable mental space, making an impervious fortress in the forefront of our minds. The kind which no amount of psychiatry or hypnosis could ever demolish. Like the time I threw up during my school photo. Or when I slipped and fell into a puddle in front of my first crush.

Yet, on the stand in that court room I was unable to remember things I needed to recall desperately. At first, I attributed it to the pressure of the defense attorney, prosecution, judge, and jury all staring as they awaited my responses. Hanging onto and analyzing my every word. The pressure felt insurmountable. Only, when recess was called and I sat alone outside on the benches, I truly couldn’t remember. How is that possible? How could I not remember someone dying in front of me?

The gun shot reminded me of a fire cracker. And for weeks and months to come, it’s all I heard echoing through my mind. First thing in the morning over my bowl of Frosted Flakes. At work as I rang items in on the register, I didn’t hear the beep of the scanner. I heard the loud shot of that pistol. At night, when blaring sitcoms from my Grandmothers TV echoed up the old vents, I didn’t hear claps during the theme song of Friends. And there in my dreams; bang, bang, BANG.

It was the last bang when he slumped to the ground in a pile. I didn’t hear the screams, or see the party goers as they ran in every direction. I just stared down at my friend, not understanding what had happened. As the remainder of his short life poured into the street. Looking up, I couldn’t make sense of it.

Outstretched, the gun pointed in my direction was illuminated by the street light. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness just beyond, I saw the man who held it. The man who fired…wasn’t a man at all. At least not in my mind.

Billy.

Whether I said his name out loud or not, I couldn’t recall. Despite twenty to thirty justice seeking onlookers inquiring.

“I…I don’t know,” I admitted honestly. “I can’t remember if I said his name.”

“But you identified the shooter as the defendant?” The prosecutor placed his hands in his pockets. Feeling comfortable he had a winning argument, and case.

“Yes.” I replied, robotically.

“How did you know it was the defendant?” Looking at his shackled ankles beneath the defense table, I felt my lip quiver before dropping my gaze into my lap.

“I grew up with him. He was in my Mother’s class.” The prosecutor’s eyes stayed fixed on me with an unflinchingly clinical, and emotionless stare until I continued, “And…he was my first crush.,” I heard the creak of chairs and scratching of pencils in notepads across the jury booth. I swallowed hard.

Part 2 Coming Soon

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“Three Shots”
by Amanda Izzo
Amanda Writes, Etc.

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Out of respect and privacy, I have made significant changes to all identifiable features. Because of this, “Three Shots” is a fictional rendition based upon real events.