To the Best People

Chapter one

It was an ordinary Saturday night. Fingers glued to the Q, W, E, and R keys of my keyboard, my right hand on the mouse. My character slightly ajar on my screen, a combination of vibrant colors set the scene for my game. Every detail pierced onto my retina, every neuron firing in my brain nourishing me, pushing me onward to success. Keys pressing fast, mouse scurrying, mouth sprinting out commands and call-outs. Competitive, my friends and I battling for the spot above us, and the spot above the now defeated. This intense competitive game filled my schedule every Saturday. This night proved to be no different.

Still entranced in my match, I was ill aware of the opening of my bedroom door. My eyes, now adapted to the fulgent light of my monitor, struggled to make out the figure. I removed the headphones from my ears; free of the intense chattering I could hear my mother whispering, “Goodnight, I love you.”

I swiftly responded “Goodnight,” hastily I returned the headphones to my ears, and hands to my keyboard—game on.

…

My eyes cowered from the sudden ambush of the light. The rays of the rising sun penetrated through my open bedroom door. My head pulsated, with regret and sleep deprivation. I didn’t open that door. A mystifying figure protruded into my field of view, my head snapped quickly. An officer stood beside my bed, arms crossed, looking down at me. Guilt flooded over me, although I had done nothing wrong, the authoritative stare sent chills down my spine.

“Son, I need you to get dressed and proceed downstairs for me.” His voice, raspy and full of pow. His broad shoulders and muscular build added to my uneasiness. The silver badge, shimmering from the invasive beams of sunlight.

Proceeding cautiously, and exhaustedly; I put on clothes quickly. Pulling shorts and a T-shirt from my old, worn down mahogany dresser. Standing in my near nakedness, adding embarrassment to my already nervous and conscience-stricken state. Not yet, in my tiredness, had I put together that something might be wrong. Just outside, in the hall, another officer stood with my brother waiting for me to exit.

My feet felt like cinderblocks, my bloodshot eyes ached, and my head pounded vigorously. Every step down the wooden stairs let out a tiny squeak, the officers followed closely behind my brother and I. My body felt as if it was swaying back, and forth; my arms heavy, hanging loosely by my side. Every step depleted me more, and more. Dragging through the kitchen, towards the door, two more cops stood conversing behind the island, isolated, yet grouped in the similar aesthetic of my mom’s elegant kitchenette. Recently washed, the granite countertops shimmered with an alluring radiance. Cabinets, with their illustriousness, sat with excellence upon the cinereal wall. Cutting boards, small bowls, and various pots repleted the kitchen sink. Aromas from last nights meal and baking of chocolate chips cookies lingered in the air.

Proceeding on the path to the door, seemed to stretch longer and longer. Feet gaining weight with every step forward. A shadow, embracing the walls and floors at the end of our path; we advanced into the darkness. Finally approaching the door, a sense of achievement permeated throughout me. Opening the door, and stepping out in the cold February day. The brisk gust of wind, thrusting goosebumps on my arms and legs. Police cars suffused the driveway. Caution tape lined the house, neighbors stood upon their doorsteps gazing upon our home. Embellished in the horrific scene, I managed to miss the real horror sitting croucher in front of me. My father, weeping into the palms of his hands, not yet realizing my brother and I stood aghast in front of him. My grandparents, stood there trying to comfort their son. An officer, with a notepad in hand, taking notes and talking with my father.

I stood frozen, like a deer in headlights. Overhead, a cloud thwarted the advancing rays of sunlight, covering the world in louring darkness. The chill of a February breeze poured over me again. From there everything moved so quickly. Hastily dragged to my grandparent's car, waiting to head wherever. The horrific picture of my father and the yellow caution tape played over and over. Everything moved so quickly. Above, the clouds stood still—frozen in time—elongating the darkness.

Chapter two

The plethora of carcinogens, or new car smell, brimmed my nostrils on the drive. The already lengthier trip felt eerily longer than usual. Thus, amongst the silence, I sat silently in my thoughts. I no longer felt emaciated. My mind seemed to roll through the footage of that morning. Playing through, and rewinding back to my rude awakening. As the footage played, the darkness of the scene seemed evermore present. The clouds outside subsided, temporarily, but rebirthed when we finally pulled into the driveway.

Ahhhh Grandma’s house—the house of homemade pizza and pasta, and occasionally the famous German chocolate cake recipe. Walking in, the same familiar aged kitchen presented itself lively. Memories of big family gatherings always met with great food; good memories. The same old ugly wooden floors remained, however. Regardless, the memories were vivid and pleasant.

Outside, the clouds cast a shadow among the kitchen. Our shadows elongated and swallowed by the impending darkness. The breeze rushing through the door, cold and uninviting.

My grandmother walked towards the stairs, “A.J., come up here a second with me.” I followed closely by, up the same old steep and creaky steps. The same steps which took my mom victim for a separated shoulder. At least she saved the camera.

Down below, I heard my brother and Grandpa walk into the living room. The TV was playing, probably a Sc-Fi—my grandfathers favorite. If the critics hated it, Grandpa loved it.

I followed my grandmother into the study, which conveniently had a bed inside. Always my goto place for sleepovers at Grandmas. The window unit allowed me to put the room to a near freezing point, or optimum sleeping temperature as I prefer to call it. A black bookshelf stood tall to the right of the doorway, my grandfather's various books and manuals on aviation lined the shelves. On the top, multiple photographs old and new leaned elegantly. All photos taken by my Grandmother or Mom; the photographers of the family. An old sepia colored picture of my Grandmother and Grandfather sat on the nightstand by the bed. The only time I’ve ever seen my grandfather with a full head of hair.

“Come sit next to me hon.”

The room seemed to go silent. The vibrant colors of the room turned dull. A cloud of doubt hovered over me. Something was seriously out of place. What is going on? The same chill traveled up my back, the same chill I got standing in the garage looking at my Dad. Darkness poured it’s way into my being, the same way it annexed the kitchen or covered, like a blanket, the scene at my house. Any life inside of me died—no not all; half. Like I was drained of substance but not all of my substance. I was there, but I wasn’t there. Like I transcended two alternate universes. One of which I stood here in my grandparent's study, cold, scared—meanwhile another laid still, sleeping, gaining back lost energy from that late night of gaming.

I sat next to my grandmother, outside the wind howled like wolves in the night. Peering out the small window above the nightstand, darkness consumed the land. The big tree swayed violently like it was protesting against the invading wind and impenetrable darkness. All protest was useless, its branches and leaves, its complete substance plunged to the ground. Immediately, with no hesitation, the wind swept it away. Robbing the once fruitful tree of its crux. She looked into my eyes, her eyes seemed to cower away. Like her thoughts, or an image brought fear into her perception. She sat hunched, the weight of her thoughts pushing down upon her. Her lips trembled as if they had something to say, but the words were stopped in their tracks. Intoxicated by the glimpse of fear.

Above, the light in the room seemed to dim. The darkness outside waited with no hesitation. With the wind, it poured into the room. Howling even more aggressively than before, nature embraced us, filled us. My grandmother began our conversation, but only after our hearts were filled with darkness.

To be continued...

Additional information: Title: To the Best People; Genre: Memoir/Non-fiction; Age range: 18+; Word Count: 1,420 words (as of now, this post); Author Name: AJ Carrozza; Why: I believe my story is compelling, will teach a story, and open the eyes of a lot of people. In the same excerpt I was able to give you, a lot is still ambiguous (not by chance), and being able to get known and have people supporting this project would be fantastic!; Hook: if you’re talking about how I am starting my “book in progress,” well you’ve just read it