Page 6 of June First

Making a decision, I press the numbers on the phone that Dad told me to dial. Nine-one-one. A lady answers, but I don’t say anything. Dad didn’t tell me to say anything. He just told me to press the numbers.

I slide my way out on my tummy, my palms pulling me forward. I snatch up Bubbles before I stand, then I pace out of the room on my tiptoes, trying to be as quiet as possible. I promised Dad I wouldn’t go downstairs, so I don’t want him to hear me.

He can’t know I broke my promise.

My insides feel fuzzy and sort of itchy as I make my way through the darkened hallway, the only sounds being the creaky wooden floor and the whoosh of a ceiling fan. I take careful steps down the staircase. It almost feels like I’m sneaking a peek of the tree on Christmas morning, checking to see if Santa came and brought me presents wrapped in colorful paper and glittering bows.

It’s not Christmas morning, though.

And what I find when I reach the bottom of the stairs is not an abundance of gifts with my name on them. There is no joy. There is no wonder.

There is only a terrible nightmare.

Blood.

Fear.

A scream.

My scream.

I squeeze my eyes shut, blotting it all out. Then I reopen them.

It’s real, it’s real… Oh no, it’s real!

Bubbles slips from my hand, landing in a pool of red that seeps from a hole in my father’s head. There’s a gun resting beside him—the same kind I’ve seen in movies and TV shows.

My mother is lying beside him, too. She has something wrapped around her neck, causing her mouth to hang open and her eyes to bug out. I think it’s my father’s work tie.

It’s purple.

I hate purple. It’s the worst color I’ve ever seen.

Mom doesn’t look at me, even though her eyes are open. She’s quiet and still, just like Dad. “Mommy?” My voice hardly sounds real. It’s so high and squeaky, stuck in my throat like Laffy Taffy. I step around my father and his river of blood, then throw myself at my mother. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t hold me.

She doesn’t protect me like she promised.

I sob against her chest, begging for her to wake up, crying for her to read me stories and sing me lullabies. Needing her to tell me this is all a bad dream.

That’s where strange men find me a short while later, dressed in uniforms, their faces filled with horror, just like how my dad’s face looked when he left me in my bedroom all alone. They rip me away from my mom, and I kick and scream and cry harder, my arms extended, reaching, pleading, as they pull me out the front door.

Away from her.

Away from Dad.

Away from Bubbles.

Someone wraps me up in a blanket even though I’m not cold. They tell me nice words in a nice voice, but I can’t make sense of anything they’re saying. Ambulances pull up with red and blue lights, sirens blaring, joining the police cars lining our cul-de-sac. Neighbors step out of their houses, cupping their mouths, shaking their heads, and staring at me with curious eyes.

Not Theo, though.

He’s not home. He’s at the hospital with his mom and dad and new baby.

Voices whisper around me, and I try to make out some of the words:

Dee-oh-ay.

Murder.

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