“What is it?” I ask, mimicking him, dressing myself quickly, my stomach sinking, sickness washing over me that something is wrong.
Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly wrong.
“Cops. My driveway, the street, it’s filled with police. They have lights on my house. I’m not sure what’s going on,” Owen says, grabbing his phone in his hand, racing through his door, down the stairs.
I trail behind him, barefoot. There’s no time for me to find my shoes. He slings the door open, ready to march out in protest, but he’s met quickly with force, two large policemen standing guard at his door. One of them catches Owen, pushing him back into the house, knocking his feet off balance.
“What the fuck?” Owen yells, trying to push through the officer again. I reach to grab Owen’s arm, to calm him.
“Stay in your house!” the officer yells, his finger pointed at both of us, his voice stern and loud.
“What the hell is going on?” Owen asks, pushing to see outside again.
“Sir, I’m warning you, get inside right now. Close this door, and find a safe place in your house and lie low, on the ground, hands over your head,” the officer says, pulling the door closed and barricading it. Owen pulls the door a few times, turning the knob with no luck.
“Owen, what’s happening?” I ask, my body tingling with nerves. Owen’s pacing, moving through the kitchen to his back door, looking through the window to see more SWAT officers positioned there. He rushes to the living room, to the windows that face the backyard, and spots another pair of officers, weapons drawn.
“What the fuck landed in my front yard?” he says, running his hand through his messy hair, walking quickly from window to window, trying to get a glimpse of something, anything that will give him a clue what’s happening outside.
“Drop your weapon!” We both hear a voice yell from outside over a megaphone, this warning followed by an eerie silence. Owen turns to look at me, his face frightened, a look I’m not used to seeing him wear. He rushes toward me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me with him up the stairs, back to the safety of his room, and he pushes me to the far side, the other side of his bed.
“Kens, please! Get on the floor, under the bed if you have to,” he says, pushing me down, pulling blankets and pillows to cover me, as if the cloth could stop anything from harming me.
“Owen, stay with me!” I scream, my hands gripping at his floor, my legs kicking to push my body under his bed, my face flat against the roughness, eyes searching for Owen’s feet, to find out where he is. He sits low near me on the other side of the bed, so he can look out his window, out over the driveway.
And all at once, I see it—I see everything that is happening outside reflected in the absolute horror that suddenly paints Owen’s face.
“James,” he lets out in weak breath, his hand losing its hold on his phone, dropping it to the floor near me, his body growing weak in an instant. His knees fall from under him, and he grasps at the windowsill as he collapses, his arms just strong enough to hold his body to the window, his face pressed against the cold glass. His breath frosts it quickly, and he pulls a fist up, tucking the sleeve of his sweatshirt over it, wiping away the moisture in a manic circle.
“What is it? Owen, what’s happening?” I scream, my body working to move closer to him, to hold him, to see what he sees.
“No! James, no!” Owen yells, his fist pounding at his window so hard he breaks it, slicing his hand, blood rushing down the length of his arm instantly. The sound of the glass, of Owen’s screams and pounding, is so loud it’s all I hear. It’s the only sound.
Until it isn’t.
The shot fires, but only once. Owen falls to the floor, his body nearly lifeless with pain, with sorrow, with grief, with guilt. Everything hits him all at once. I pull myself the rest of the way out from under his bed, rushing to hold him. I pull him to my lap, wrapping his sheet around his hand, doing my best to slow the bleeding from cuts I know are deep.
Owen lets me, his body weak in my arms, his heart—broken.
“Somebody! I need help, please! He’s hurt. Help me!” I scream as loudly as my lungs will let me, my voice growing hoarse, raspier with every shout, until finally two officers and a medic come rushing through Owen’s door.
“Please, help him. Please, he hurt himself, on the window. There’s glass in his arm; I think some of it’s still in there,” I plead, my arms not wanting to let go of their hold on Owen. His face is strewn with tears, his gaze lost out the window, to the scene below.