I slept last night.478Please respect copyright.PENANAkjq9astHIT
It was the first time in what seems like a long time, and when I woke up this morning, I cried tears of joy at the realization that I had just gotten ten plus hours of sleep.478Please respect copyright.PENANA6HbWd9IgQ1
Of course, my mood immediately soured once I remembered yesterday's events. It's what I've been thinking about throughout breakfast, while staring unseeingly at the television, and now, as I'm showering. The lack of concern that they have for this young man is quite frankly poignant. Why is it that they closed the investigation so quickly? Is it that they don't want to see the possible truth? Did they find something that they are hiding?
Or is it that they just don't care?
Of course they don't.
The water beating down onto my back does nothing to calm me, soothe make me feel better. I can't even feel a temperature anymore; only the sensation of the liquid raining down onto my skin, and sliding off of my body. The soap washed off a long time ago, but I feel no urge to leave the shower.
Honestly, I feel awful. I feel this constant, full pain inside of me that no amount of painkillers can cure, and it hasn't left me since I found the boy.
Without thinking much of it, I grab the shampoo bottle. I gently squeeze a small amount of the opaque, borderline translucent liquid into my hand before lathering it into my thick, kinky hair. I rub the shampoo into my tresses aggressively, scratching my scalp to the point of pain, with the effort of trying to empty my mind. It is while doing this that the doorbell rings, pulling me out of my aggressive ritual. I curse under my breath when I see that the lather on my fingers is tainted pink with my blood.
"Coming!" I shout, turning off the shower and pulling on my robe, although I'm positive that whoever is waiting for me at the door can't hear me.
I hurry to the door, and thankfully, I don't slip; I open the door, for some reason, expecting to see the police officer again. However, I'm surprised to see a middle aged black woman with a folder on my porch. She looks... depressed.
"Morning," I say to her.
"Are you Reina James?"
"Yes."
"You found my son," she whispers.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I say to her, because I don't know what else to say.
She lets out a deep sigh.
"His funeral is next Saturday, at our house. He always wanted to be cremated whenever he died. I never thought that I'd be there when it happened." She takes a deep breath, trying to hold back her tears. "I heard you're a pianist, so—"
"Yes, of course," I reply quickly.
"Thank you," she says with a small smile, before taking out piece of paper with her address and number, and also hands me the folder — which has the sheeted music for the hymns that they will be singing — then turning to leave. As if she forgot something, she turns back to me.
"Oh, and you're invited to his wake. It's also at our house, before the funeral."
"Oh, um, thanks. I'll be there," I say to her.
When she leaves, I look down. I'm standing in a puddle of soap and water.
Brilliant.478Please respect copyright.PENANAHNEMvMJ6do
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Once I finish washing and coming my hair, I decide to practice on the piano. After warming up with scales, arpeggios, and exercises, I start to play the hymns — they're easy; I've played all of them before, some in different keys, but transposing isn't hard — but like the other day, my mind is far away from the piano; my mind is on Antoine. I don't want his life and death to be forgotten. I don't want this case to be buried.
I suddenly remember that I'm not the only one who feels this way.
For some reason, I had a feeling that I'd be calling him someday; I saved his number. Picking up my phone, I scroll through my contacts until I find his name.
I call him twice.
He doesn't answer.
Irritated, I pocket my phone and resume my piano playing.
That's how the rest of my evening goes. As I pick at my rice and peas, I remember Antoine's mother's face when she visited me. I turn on the television, and try to focus on whatever Barry is doing on The Flash, but the image of Antoine hanging from a tree keeps popping up in my mind at the most inconvenient moments. Even as I lie in my bed, trying to sleep, images of Antoine's dead face along with his mother's depressed one keep me from sleeping. It is only after trying to sleep for about an hour and a half that I find myself easing into unconsciousness, but just as I'm about to permanently close my eyes, my phone rings from the bedside table.
"Hello?" I answer the phone, trying my best not to sound irritated.
"Hello, I saw a missed call from this number — oh gosh, did I wake you?"
I pull the phone away from my ear, and look at the screen. Sure enough, it's Officer Tiller.
"Not exactly," I reply, trying to suppress my yawn. "It's Reina James."
"Oh, good evening Miss James."
"Evening, officer. I wanted to talk to you about Antoine."
"Have you remembered anything else? Do you—"
"I've been invited to his wake," I spit out as soon as I can. I hear nothing on the other end of the phone, so I continue speaking.
"I was wondering if there is anything that you would like me to do while I'm there. Ask questions? Find out about him? His li—"
"Everything about his life before he died," he states, sounding hopeful, desperate and manic all at once. "His likes, dislikes, his state of mind, everything."
"I'll try, but I don't know how much I can find out from people I don't know."
"You have to try your best, Reina. Please," he begs in a voice that screams desperation.
"I will. I promise."
"Oh, and try to find out about anyone else who has been through the same thing that he has been through."
That statement takes me by surprise.
"What? What do you mean?" I question.
"Try to find out about anyone else who has possibly been lynched, but overlooked."
The way he says it, as if is is a regular occurrence... has me so confused.
"You're saying this like it happens all the time," I reply."
I hear nothing, leading me to believe that he has hung up the phone.
"Hello? Officer Tiller?"
That is when he chooses to reply.
"Because Reina," he says in a low voice, "it does."478Please respect copyright.PENANA6Y6aTFCes2
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