Dear Charlie. Natália Gomes

I could hear them even though I hadn’t been there – the desperate screams, the frantic 999 calls, the smashing of the windows. It was so loud in my ears. I pressed my hands into my ears. ‘Stop,’ I whispered, ‘please stop.’ But it didn’t stop. The screams got louder, more high-pitched, and the sound of glass shattering became deafening.

      ‘Sam?’

      I blinked my eyes open and saw the outline of someone that I used to know, someone that used to be my friend. I opened my mouth to say hello but suddenly that felt stupid. A simple hello wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t even come close.

      Geoff stood in front of me, his hands trembling as they held a small bouquet of carnations wrapped in thin plastic and tied with yellow ribbon at the bottom. As my eyes skimmed the ground by his feet, I noticed more bouquets and ribbons like his. Flowers, small teddy bears and cards littered the pavement all around the perimeter of the school. Most lay on the ground, resting against the knee wall while others were tied to the metal bars of the gate. There were so many flowers, gifts, messages to loved ones and missed ones. I shouldn’t have been there. I mounted my bike and turned around, slamming down on the pedals as they propelled me away from the school and the people I used to know. And from the friends I used to have.

      I could hear Geoff calling to me as I pedalled faster and harder, until I reached my street. A couple of children playing skip rope in a front garden stopped when I cycled past, letting the rope drop to the ground. As I pulled into my driveway, a neighbour across the street stood frozen outside his door, groceries still in hand. I could feel his eyes burning into my back as I pushed open the front door.

      ‘Sam, is that you?’ my mum called out.

      ‘Who else would it be,’ I muttered, walking past my dad sitting in his chair with the television remote in one hand and a beer in the other. I shuffled into the kitchen and saddled into one of the bar stools.

      ‘I had to go all the way to Watford,’ she quietly said, unpacking groceries from a beige straw recycled bag, the edges frayed with use. Having been told by six retailers that she was unwelcome, Mum now needed to shop at a grocer’s fifteen miles away.

      I watched as she unloaded the heavy bag – milk, apples, bananas, brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts. I stared at them, the box achingly familiar. ‘Mum – ’

      ‘ – What is that, Linda?’

      My dad carefully edged towards the kitchen counter, setting his beer can down on the granite. He lifted up the box of Pop Tarts, his hand slightly trembling. ‘What is this?’ he asked again, hanging on longer to each word spoken.

      ‘Charlie will only eat the brown sugar and cinnamon kind. He won’t try any other flavour,’ she stammered, trying to grasp the box back from Dad’s hand. But he shook her off, pulling the box in closer to his chest.

      ‘Enough,’ he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.

      ‘Do you remember when we tried to make him eat the strawberry kind?’ she continued, a nervous smile stretching across her face.

      ‘I said, enough!’ He slammed the box against the kitchen wall. It caved in upon impact, sending small pieces of the buttery crust flying out in a dust of sugar. It hit the floor, more large crumbs spilling out from the broken open edges.

      My mum dropped to the ground, tears spilling from her eyes as she picked up the box and cradled it, as if it was alive. Her back broke into tiny spasms as her tears became louder and deeper, until they violently shook her whole body. I waited for Dad to walk over and comfort her, already knowing that it wouldn’t happen. He turned around and walked back to the living room, sliding into his chair and taking a long swig of beer.

      I inched down from the stool and walked over to the linen cabinet. I eased out the broom and dustpan, and gingerly approached Mum on the floor. She huddled protectively over the mess. So I placed the dustpan on the floor and leaned the broom against the wall, and slumped up the stairs.

      When I reached the top of the stairs, I noticed Charlie’s door was slightly ajar. Not looking in, I leaned forward and closed it tight. Walking past the framed photos of him as a smiling toddler on a swing and a laughing child at Disney World, I shuffled into my bedroom and leaned on the door. I stumbled back as the door pitched and shut behind me then I slid down until my legs hit the floor and splayed out in front of me.

      I tilted my head back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers that had been on my ceiling for almost six years. I remembered the day Charlie and I put them up there. Dad had just taken us to the newsagent’s around the corner. He did that every Wednesday after school. He said it was to help us get through the rest of the school week, although I think he also did it for himself. While he slid a six-pack of lager out from the fridge in the back of the shop, Charlie and I counted out our weekly allowance. We didn’t get much, but it was always enough to pick out a comic or magazine, and a sweet.

      On this particular afternoon, I had really wanted a special-edition comic about aliens and distant planets. But I didn’t have enough money, even if I skipped the sweet. Charlie gave me his share. He always did stuff like that for me.

      Together with our coins combined, we bought the comic and eagerly ran home with it, Dad trying to keep up behind us. While Mum cooked dinner and Dad sipped beer and watched the football highlights, Charlie and I lay on my bedroom floor and read the comic from front to back. And on the back page were free stickers that promised to glow in the dark. Charlie ripped them out, and balanced on my nightstand as I pointed out the spots in my ceiling I wanted to fill with planetary shapes and intergalactic stars.

      At bedtime, when Mum thought we were brushing our teeth, we turned off the lights in the room and stared up at the ceiling in awe. They weren’t bright and didn’t really resemble any planets I had seen in picture books, but they were amazing. They were ours, and no matter how much we drifted apart in our later childhood years, they remained on my ceiling as a reminder of the memories we built together. Now, they reminded me of the lives that were lost that June day and of the earsplitting gunshots I heard in my head at night.

Chapter 3

       ‘What Would the Community Think?’ (Cat Power, Autumn 1996)

      The weekend flew by in a hazy stream of contorted nightmares and news headlines. My mum remained in her room for most of it. Occasionally I could hear her cries seeping in through the thin walls. My dad paced in front of the door trying to gather the strength to walk outside and face the judging looks and intentionally loud whispers of the patrons of his local pub, The Olde Black Lion. But he never left. His feet pounded the wooden floor, only briefly stopping to glance out the window, but he never walked out the door.

      Before the panic could sink in, it was already there – my first day at my new school. Mum felt like it was too soon. She was worried it would come across as disrespectful to the community and those in mourning. What did they want from me? Did they want me to complete Charlie’s life sentence? They couldn’t have him – he was smart enough to concoct his own exit plan – so they’d take the next best thing, his brother. An eye for an eye. His blood runs in my veins too so I must be guilty along with him.

      I wanted to leave this house more than anything, but my stomach churned just thinking of setting foot outside the front door. My first day at Knightsbridge Academy had thankfully been kept out of the papers, for my first week anyway. But Pembrook was a small town and in small towns people talk too much. That fact had become glaringly obvious over the past couple of months.

      The cereal bowl sat full in front of me, the spoon still clean. I picked it up, scooping out the contents into the rubbish bin and placed it down into the sink, being careful not to wake my dad who snored on the living room sofa. He had slept there since it had happened, although the irreparable distance between them had grown long before the shootings.

      I glanced up the stairs briefly – no one to say goodbye to. As I reached for my school bag, my hands trembled and a warm sensation