CHAPTER 2
1113 Words
Alexander’s POV
Everything fell apart fast.
The two days after they found my family felt unreal. Like I was stuck in a bad dream, I couldn’t wake up from.
In the police holding cell, a TV played nonstop news. I sat on a cold metal bench, my hands cuffed, staring at the screen. I couldn’t look away as my life turned into entertainment for everyone else.
“Police are still unsure of the motive,” a news reporter said, sounding calm and fake. “But sources say there was serious tension between the young shooting star and his father, Oliver Blackwood. After Alexander quit professional shooting in 2024, neighbors say they heard arguments often. Was this planned, or just a sudden act of rage?”
My throat tightened.
Planned?
Rage?
I had been at the university library, staring at code on a computer, trying to build a future that didn’t involve guns. I didn’t want to be just a shooter anymore. I wanted to make things. I wanted my dad to see me as more than a tool.
“You should try to eat.”
I jumped a little. My uncle Victor stood outside the bars. He was my mom’s brother, the fun one. The one who snuck candy and games into our house when Dad wasn’t looking.
Now he looked tired and broken. His suit was wrinkled. His eyes were red.
“I can’t,” I said quietly.
“The lawyer is trying to get you bail, but Blackwell is pushing hard,” Victor said. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Alex… they had the funeral today.”
It felt like someone punched me in the chest.
“Today?” I jerked forward, the cuffs clanking. “How could they do that? I told them I wanted to be there. I’m the only one left. How could they bury them without me?”
Victor looked away. A tear slid down into his gray beard.
“People were angry, Alex. The city was on edge. They said it wasn’t safe to move you. The state ordered a quiet burial. I tried to stop it. I swear I did.”
I sank back onto the bench. A broken sob escaped me.
I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I didn’t get to hold Sarah’s hand.
I didn’t get to thank Mom for always sneaking me snacks after long practice days.
They were gone. Buried.
And I was stuck behind bars, being torn apart by the world.
“They say my DNA was on the gun,” I said softly. “How is that even possible? I haven’t touched it since I quit. I locked it in the safe. Only Dad and I knew the code.”
“I don’t know,” Victor whispered. “But Blackwell is spinning everything. He’s calling it ‘the ultimate betrayal.’ He keeps saying only someone with your skill could’ve done it. That only an Olympic shooter could make shots like that in the dark.”
I stared at the floor.
They were using the thing I was best at…to destroy me.
The door at the end of the hall slammed open. Richard Blackwell walked in with two detectives beside him. He didn’t look like a man dealing with tragedy. He looked like someone who had just won the lottery. A leather folder rested under his arm, and he walked with calm confidence.
“Visiting time is over, Mr. Lawson,” Blackwell said. His eyes locked on me, sharp and hungry. He didn’t even look at Victor.
Victor squeezed my hand through the bars one last time before the guards pulled him away. The door shut with a click, and the room fell into a heavy, dangerous silence.
Blackwell nodded at the guard, and the cell door opened. He stepped inside. His expensive cologne filled the air, mixing badly with the smell of sweat and cleaning chemicals. He dragged a small chair closer and sat right in front of me. Our knees were almost touching.
“You had a lot of fans, Alexander,” Blackwell said as he opened his folder. Inside were pages and pages of printed papers. “Well… you had fans. Want to see what they’re saying now?”
He flipped the pages. Pictures of my face flashed past, my face with the word MONSTER written across it in red. Online petitions with hundreds of thousands of signatures. People are demanding the death penalty. For me.
“They feel betrayed,” Blackwell said softly. “They loved you. Cheered for you. Believed in you. And you paid them back by turning your so-called ‘Golden’ talent into a weapon.”
He leaned forward slightly. “You didn’t just kill four people, Alex. You killed the idea of the American Hero.”
“I didn’t do it,” I growled, heat rising in my chest. “You’re lying. You’re twisting this because you want to be Governor.”
Blackwell didn’t blink. A small, cold smile spread across his face.
“What I want doesn’t matter,” he said. “What matters is what I have. A murder weapon with your DNA on it. Witnesses who saw your car. And a motive everyone understands, the angry son killing his powerful father.”
He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But honestly? I think you’re a coward. I think you were too scared to walk away. And you’re too scared to admit what you really are.”
His eyes bored into mine. “You’re not a hero. You’re a mistake. A flaw in a perfect family.”
Blackwell stood up and straightened his tie.
“The trial starts in three weeks,” he said calmly. “We’re speeding it up. People want blood, Alexander. And I’m more than happy to give it to them.”
Blackwell left, and I climbed onto the thin mattress covered in plastic. I curled into a tight ball. My mind raced, searching for a way out, some proof that could save me. But every idea hit a wall and fell apart, dragging me back to the truth.
I was stuck.
I wasn’t just locked up by the state. I was trapped in a story that had already decided I was the bad guy.
Outside, rain poured down on the streets of Seattle. It washed the city clean, but it couldn’t wash my name. Nothing could. Inside the cell, the darkness felt heavy and crushing. The wall clock kept ticking, loud and slow, like it was counting down my life.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
I was seventeen years old, and I was already dead.
My body just hadn’t given up yet.
- Writer
