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India Robertson • • 21 years old • • •
The Church Gathering
The air was thick with laughter, the scent of barbecue, and the familiar sound of gospel music drifting from the back porch. Grandma had invited the whole family and half the church over for one of her famous Sunday gatherings. Kids came in and out of the house, their sneakers slapping the hardwood floors, leaving trails of giggles.
I had taken it upon myself to keep a watchful eye. With so many little one's running around, someone needed to make sure no one got hurt or lost. That's when I saw him. A little brown skinned boy with shorts dreads, looks to be maybe six or seven. He was sprinting to the bathroom like his life depended on it. I laughed and kept patrolling.
Fifteen minutes go by and his older brother who also was brown-skinned with dreads that reached a little past his shoulders came inside looking worried. "Have you seen my little brother?" He asked peeking into rooms and calling out names. We started searching together, checking every corner of the house.
Finally we found them, the little brown boy along with a light skinned boy with dreads. They were curled up and sleeping in one of the guest beds. Relief flooded my chest but something felt off. The way they were sleeping looked more like collapse than rest.
"You two okay?" I asked softly
They blinked awake, nodding quickly. I guided them outside where the food table was, handing them each a hotdog. They devoured them like they hadn't eaten all day. I stepped away to give them space, not thinking much of it.
Time passed. The sun dipped a little lower. I scanned the yard and spotted the older brother again. I walked toward him, meaning to ask how they planned on getting home.
But before I could get the words out, a car screeched to a halt in front of the house. The unmistakable sound of gunfire cracked through the air.
We ran. Chaos erupting around us. Some ran into the house, others fled toward the backyard. Then shots came from the back too. A second group had came. It was an ambush.
I grabbed the older brother's arm and pulled him toward the house, but he resisted.
"I cant leave without my brothers," he yelled, with panic all over his face.
"Call their last names!" I shouted.
He turned, cupped his hands, and screamed their names. But then his eyes locked on something and his face crumbled.
Across the yard his curly-haired, light skinned brother laid on the ground, bleeding out, his lip trembling with pleas for help. Without hesitation the older brother broke from my grip and ran to him, bullets still flying.
I froze. My heart and feet battled each other. I wanted to help, but I also wanted to live. In the end, I turned and ran inside.
Minutes felt like hours. Finally, the older brother burst through the door, dragging his remaining brothers in behind him. Relief punched me in the chest.
My aunt, a nurse was already at the back of the house, kneeling over the curly-haired boy, trying to stop the bleeding. Her hands were steady, but her face told the truth none of us wanted to say out loud.
We were too far from a hospital. He had lost too much blood.
