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10:22 pm. Have you ever felt as if your stomach was sinking? And you didn’t know why suddenly you felt as if you couldn’t breathe, but just that feeling that something was terribly wrong? All I remember is 911 being dialed on an outdated landline with my own fingers and then I was riding in the back of a police car. I remember watching through the slits in the separation window as two police officers drove me to an address I had memorized from the very first time Iwent there eight months ago. 11:09 pm. I never want to see a rope again. I also made sure that the first thing I did when I got home was to rip my fan from my bedroom ceiling. It didn’t matter that it was August and scorching. His body would now be permanently cold. So mine will have to have enough heat for the both of us, I thought. It didn’t matter that my mom was going to kill me for the hole I made. “You didn’t go to the funeral,” My counselor says. “No, I didn’t.” “Why?” I open my mouth, then close it. You see, when the final picture you’re left with of the boy you used to love is him swinging in the air with his neck broken, and his eyes popping out of his head, and his skin a dark blue color, you run. And you run and run until the image is finally gone. And the funeral? The funeral would have made everything so much worse. Instead I say, “I don’t know.” “Would you like to go on a date with me?” Isaac asked me one rainy day at the movie theater. He put his hands on the concession counter and leaned in close, close enough that I noticed a tiny section of brown in his left eye. It was towards the bottom of the eye. It was cute. “Okay,” I had said. “What do you want to do?” “See a movie?” I swatted his arm, “I hope you’re joking.” Truthfully, I wouldn’t have minded seeing another movie in the same theater where I worked everyday after school. I wouldn’t have minded staying there all night, if Isaac was there too. He’d been coming to the theater at least twice a week for the past month, and I’d grown attached to him. I wonder now, if I had known all that was to come, would I have said yes? “You quit your job?” My mother had screamed at me a week after Isaac died. “We need that money!” How was I supposed to work there? I had tried for a week. And I couldn’t do it. Not when all I saw in the yellow lights was Isaac’s blonde hair. Not when all I heard in the movie posters was his voice saying how, this movie was pretty good, and, I know you, Marie, and you would hate this movie. Not when all that filled my head was the




Profile for Oakland Arts Review

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4  

Oakland Arts Review Volume 4