1988

1988

Murder, in the traditional sense, is when one person takes another’s life. There are so many different kinds that hold so many possibilities. There is the planned murder, the spur of the moment murder, an accidental murder, but they are all still murders.

I was murdered in 1988. That year, the biggest movies were Rain Man, Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, and Coming to America. I only saw one of them. The price for a postage stamp was twenty-five cents. I mailed three envelopes. The Lakers won the NBA Championship and the Red Skins won the Superbowl. I watched one half of the basketball game. I was a week from turning sixteen.

When I look back, my life was filled with nothing but trivial, meaningless events that piled up to make me me. Things I took for granted, like riding my bike on a sunny day, writing notes that I would never send to my secret crush, and sing “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” at the top of my lungs. I miss those things.

I lived in a small house in a medium-sized town full of inconsequential people who did boring and mundane things. The kind of mundane things that don’t classify as murder. Nobody locked their doors, people didn’t use guns for anything but hunting, and parents let their kids walk home from school without a worry.

I was murdered on a Tuesday. A Tuesday! Normal. I was walking home from school since my bike’s tire was flat, and my dad couldn’t get it fixed until Friday. I was actually hoping for a brand new bike for my birthday. I only lived five blocks from the school and it was a nice day, so I wasn’t really unhappy about walking.

Since it was such a normal occurrence, I don’t remember much. Like, I can’t remember what the lady with all the cats looked like or if Mr. Davenport’s house was grey or blue. The only thing I remember about before is that whenever I took a step, my backpack would slam against my back and the things inside made little irritating noises. I recall feeling angry about it.

And then everything went black.

What is murder? Murder is when one person takes another’s life with no more thought than picking lint off of one’s shirt. Murder is a cold, calculated occurrence, yet so uncomfortably itchy that no matter how much one commits it, one never truly stops the itching. People talk about murder like it’s evil, but what is really evil is never actually thinking about the dead the way they should be.

I never really thought about what happens to you when you die. Let me tell you, it’s not what anybody expects. I hadn’t ever really thought about death until I saw my own body. At first, I didn’t even recognize myself. Dead eyes, pale, bruised skin, an unmoving body. I think we all get used to watching how someone moves and when you see a dead person, you can tell they aren’t normal. After the confusion wore off and I realized that that was my face, my body, my eyes.

I tried to scream. Nothing happened. I couldn’t move my mouth, in fact, I couldn’t even feel my mouth. Unbridled panic is the only thing I felt. Then I asked myself how am I looking at myself if I really am dead? I look down and there is nothing. I should see something, but I don’t. There is only an empty space.

This is what we are when we are dead. This is what we become. An invisible soul that makes no sound, has no physical body, and can only acknowledge sight and emotion. This is what I am. I am gone. My body-an empty husk. My panic is still there, churning in what is left of me. I scramble to remember something-anything.

The year was 1988. I saw Coming to America last weekend. I wrote three letters. The half time score of the Championship was 52-47. I was supposed to turn sixteen. But I never would.