an uncontrollable scream that burns the back of my throat. My tears have a mind of their own and come rushing out of my eyes faster than I ever thought possible, as I stare at my hands covered in my father’s blood. I hear police sirens approaching, and there’s bystanders on the sidewalks staring into the car. None of them are doing anything to help, they’re just staring at us. At me. At my dead father. I don’t even bother asking for help, either. They’re obviously too stupid to recognize I need it. Fuck them. Fuck them!
I look at my father again as I sob uncontrollably. My stomach heaves up and down from the crying, and my heart hurts from the sight of him slumped over, unmoving, breathless, lifeless. I can’t think, I can’t see straight, I can’t move, I can’t live. My thoughts collide and jumble together to form an incoherent mess of words and emotions that multiply over and over again, and produce a hatred and anger I can’t understand. I don’t know if I’m in shock or if I’m just scared and mad. I don’t know anything.
The sirens get closer and I still can’t move. Soon, the cops will be here and they’ll ask me questions about what happened, and if I saw anything. The same fucking cops who arrested Frankie yesterday, and the same ones who would’ve been coming after my father tomorrow.
I won’t tell them anything. I won’t tell them about Our Thing, or River City, or my father, or Alfonse Cestone’s death, and I won’t tell them about Sammy Cestone either.
I won’t tell them it was Sammy.
It was Sammy.
Sammy . . .
My world closes in around me. Alannah’s leaving. My father’s dead. There’s nothing left, and I have no reason to think of anything positive. Everything positive is gone.
As the cops arrive with their sirens blaring, I look at my father one last time. I think about how his heart is no longer beating, and I realize mine isn’t either. It has gone too cold. Or, maybe it just left my body altogether. I don’t know. I don’t care. Either way, I’ll never be the same. I don’t even want to be.
Everything good in me has died with my father.
Alannah
Dear Dominic,
Another eight days has gone by, and I haven’t seen or heard from you, so I’m writing you now because I don’t have any other options at this point.
I’ve called you a bunch of times, but your mom doesn’t answer the phone much, and when she does, I can tell she’s barely even listening to me, and I know she won’t give you the message. I understand why, though.
Everybody heard about what happened to your dad. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am, Dominic. I know how much you loved him and how close you were, and I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through right now. I just wish you would’ve talked to me so I could help. But like I said, I understand why you’d want to be alone. My love for you is making me a little selfish, though.
I miss you, Dominic. I miss the way we talked and how much we made each other laugh over the years. Nothing puts a bigger smile on my face than the night of homecoming. It was the most amazing, special night of my life, and I’ll never forget it. Not ever.
“Hurry up, Alannah. We have to go. You know I don’t like to rush,” my father yells back into the house. He and my mother are outside talking to the housing inspector, who’s making sure we didn’t leave the house in some terrible condition before we go.
Today’s the day we leave for Anchorage. I sit in my empty room remembering everything that happened while I lived here. All the good things, all the bad things. The best memories are the ones that involve Dominic. All the nights I spent in here on the phone, talking to him when I knew I wasn’t supposed to because it was late, but my parents were asleep so I did it anyway. I remember how I laid on my bed and thought about him after my first day of school, when he saved me from Billy Hannigan. I remember the day my parents told me we were moving to Alaska, and I came to this room and cried as I realized I was in love with him. Four years of incredible memories