I go to them on all fours. I want to save them somehow. But it’s too late. They’re gone. All of them, gone like they were never alive in the first place. We didn’t rescue them. We killed them.
I go to my mother who’s sitting furthest on the left, my father right beside her, pressed against her left side. Mikey was sitting beside my dad. Now, he lies on his left side, a portion of his skull blown off. The young laundry van driver next to him has taken a round directly to the forehead, or so the nickel-sized entry wound tells me.
My mother’s eyes are still open, as are my father’s. It’s almost like they’re both still alive but stunned. The bullet that pierced my dad’s neck tells the whole story. It’s the same with my mother. The two bullets she took in the chest, one of which went right th
