I Can't Breathe

Content Warning: Includes descriptive accounts of police brutality, like our world does today.

My reflection stared back at me, my brown eyes cold and empty. I tilted my head, observing my reflection, trying to understand what they saw. What made me different? What made him different? My questions were vague, my tongue not wanting to use the words they described us with. Threat. Thug. Delinquent. Other. Where did they see it? I glanced down at the red liquid on my palms and the waist area of my white dress. It was hard to refer to it as blood. Blood meant death. Death meant mourning. Mourning would turn into anger and right now, I just wanted to be blank. There would be time for anger and mourning.

"Lynn?" My mother whispered, knocking on the bathroom door and peeking her head in. It was rare for her to be so timid and quiet. As a black woman, my mother knew how important it was for her to use her voice and she did so, without reservation. I tried not to dwell on the fact that my mother was acting so strangely. For now, I would just pretend she wasn't feeling well. Or I wasn't feeling well. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a normal Saturday night.

"You better bring her home by 10:30! No staying over, no 'Oh, the movie ran late,' none of that shit. 10:30 or I kick ya ass, understood?" Quin put on his charming smile as I groaned.

"She won't be a minute past 10:30, ma'am," My mother eyed him up and down once more before nodding. She kissed my cheek and told us to be careful before shutting the door. Quin pulled me into him by my waist, tilting his head down to peck me on the lips. I complied, smiling before motioning towards the living room window where I didn't even have to check to see if my mother was watching us with a scold on her brown face. Quin winced, mouthing an 'I'm sorry' as we hurried towards his car, a black 2016 Ford Fusion with a dent near the back taillight from that time when he was rear-ended by an older lady and a red stain on the back seat from his little sister who spilled Koolaid earlier that summer.

I thanked him as he opened my door for me, shutting it as I sat and striding to the driver's seat. He turned and gave me a proper kiss, my smile ruining any coordination we may have had. He smiled back, winking like the cocky jerk I loved, and pulled the car into drive, leaving my mother — who I'd bet all of the money in the world was still standing in the living room window — behind.

"You think she's mad?" I laughed, shaking my head.

"You buttered her up with the 'ma'am' nonsense. We've known each other for years, she's just trying to scare you because she can."

"I wanted to be respectful!" He laughed. "Your mother would not hesitate to beat the shit out of me, regardless of how long I've known you and you know that. She cares about you. It's a good thing, nowadays."

"It is." He made a left into the movie theatre parking lot, smiling as he parked in an empty space, two rows back near the left pole with the exposed control box. It would take a long time for me to ever return to this movie theatre and an even longer time before I could park anywhere near this spot.

"You know, I care about you too, right?" He chuckled at my eye-roll, shrugging as if to say 'It's true.' I nodded, pecking him on the cheek once more before opening the passenger door.

"Yeah. I care about you too."

I once watched a show that talked about the validity of memories. Memories usually start off as facts: hard, solid, play-by-play events. But slowly, they begin to filter in emotions until they are rendered unreliable. I wonder how long it would take for this moment to change from a play-by-play to an unreliable memory. Hopefully, forever.

"Lynn, sweetie?" I snapped out of my memory — no, wait, my play-by-play —, glancing at my mother through the mirror. Did people look at her and see a threat? Would tonight's events have occurred if it was just her and me? I know the answer to my question though I liked to pretend I didn't. Every black person learns the answer to that question from a young age. We only expand on it as we grow older to understand how difficult it is to live here or anywhere.

"Yes, Mom?"

"Some officers at the station want you to give a statement about what happened tonight. They said it will increase the likelihood of getting justice for—"

"If those officers are going to be at the station, I'm not going tonight. I'll end up just like Quin." I muttered the last part, clenching my fists in an attempt to return to numbness. I wasn't ready for mourning and anger. Not yet. I still needed to process.

"Lynn," Mom moved closer, her hand resting on the small of my back. It was only then I realized I'd started to tremble and my breathing sped up. Too many emotions. It won't be reliable. I had to focus on the cold, hard facts. My play-by-play. "You should wash your hands, sweetie. And change. It'll help."

"No, it won't."

"It's a start." She reached around me and turned the faucet on, motioning for me to run them under the warm water and effectively wash away tonight's events.

"I'm not ready to wash my hands."

"You keep staring at them, Lynn. It's not healthy. You need to wash his blood off of you, change your clothes, and lie down —"

"I don't need to lie down, mother!" My tongue was sharp as I pulled away from her slightly. My stomach filled with a bottomless pit of dread, nausea washing over me like I'd just gotten off of a rollercoaster that was too adventurous for my taste. Only this ride was far from over and I don't remember signing up to get on it in the first place.

"I'm sorry." I whispered.

"I understand," she whispered back.

"That movie was absolute garbage, I'm sorry," Quin laughed as I gasped over-dramatically.

"How dare you! Divergent is a hit series for a reason," I shut the passenger door, glancing at my phone to check the time. 10:06 p.m. "Shit, we need to hurry. It's getting close to my curfew."

Quin started the car, pushing out a breath. "Yea, I would like to live today, if that's alright with you." He pulled out the parking lot, turning onto the street. He revved his gas slightly, speeding up to 45 mph.

"You know it's 40 down through here, right?" I cautioned him.

"Yea, but it'll be fine. Cops don't usually stop you —" He glanced up as red and blue lights flashed in the rearview. I shook my head, slightly annoyed, as he swore and signaled to pull over, before stopping the car.

"You're gonna be a bit late," he groaned. I waved it off. Mom would understand, or she wouldn't, but we'd be fine.

"Sir, can I get your license and registration?" The white cop shined his flashlight in Quin's face, making him wince. He blinked a few times to clear his vision as the cop grew more agitated. "License. And. Registration," he said again, this time slapping his palm against the side of the car, making me jump. Quin instinctively reached for my leg to calm me, catching the attention of the other white cop on my side of the car.

"What are you reaching for?" He practically screamed, also slapping his palm against the roof of the car and leaning closer where his head was pretty much inside of the vehicle.

"My registration is in the glovebox. I just have to reach past her." Quin's voice has a fearful calmness to it, his hand shaking although his voice never did. He pressed the button on the glove department — never taking his eyes off the officer —, grabbing the registration and shutting it back. He slowly — slower than any normal human should have to move — handed it to the officer on his side, who snatched the papers and glanced them over in less than a second.

"Sir, please step out of the vehicle." My heart lurched as I looked at Quin, obvious panic in my facial features. Did Quin do something? Why were these cops so angry? We were speeding by less than 5 mph; we weren't gravely endangering anyone. Quin motioned for me to take a deep breath, mouthing 'Stay in the car' before pushing the car door open — again slowly — while keeping his other hand raised. As soon as he had one foot out of the car, the officer grabbed Quin's shirt, snatching him out of the car and pressing his front against the side of it, spread eagle, as the other officer rushed to the driver's side. I flinched, letting out a scream in protest as I fumbled for my phone. I didn't know what exactly I was about to record, but my gut told me it needed to be recorded.

Quin grunted at the force of the push as the passenger side officer forcibly turned his head to the side, placing his forearm on Quin's neck. The driver's side officer pulled Quin's shirt again, this time pushing him into the asphalt with no care for the human body.

"Stop! You're hurting him! What did he do?" I screamed, frantically pushing out of the car and coming around the front, the camera still recording.

"Lynn! Stay in the car!" Quin turned his head to look in my direction as the officer handcuffed him.

"Stop resisting!" The driver's side asshole screamed pressing his knee into the top of Quin's back. "I will shoot. This gun is loaded for assholes like you." Like us? What did Quin do?

"I'm not resisting! I'm not resisting!" Quin's screams pierced the air. I could see tears spilling down his cheeks, mixing with the blood from his busted lip. He was done hiding his fear; he wanted everyone to know that this was wrong, that he was an innocent teenager driving his girlfriend back home after a movie date, speeding ever so slightly to ensure she was home before her curfew. No speeding ticket warrants this. But even in his fear — his reasonable, valid fear — he continued to lay there as stiff as possible, as the driver side cop dragged his body around by his handcuffs, yelling at him to keep still as if he wasn't at the whim of a racist white police officer.

"He's not resisting! You're hurting him!" Tears blurred my vision and I instinctively lurched forward as the passenger side cop reached for his gun. "Don't kill him! He's innocent!" My throat felt raw from all of the screams that left my mouth and the cries for decency that left my spirit. I refused to believe I was going to witness the murder of my best friend. Not on our first date. Not over a stupid speeding ticket due to a stupid curfew that I would've only been grounded for. It wasn't going to happen.

The rest happened in slow motion. The driver's side officer pulled Quin up to a standing position, continuing to yell for him to 'stop resisting.' The passenger side asshole drew his gun, pointing it at Quin's now-exposed torso. I screamed, begging for God or someone to stop this. To wake me up from this horrible nightmare I refused to believe was real life. The first shot rang out, striking Quin in the stomach. His body lurched with the impact, as the officer fired 4 more shots, each striking different parts of his torso, one directly where his heart should be. My eyes followed every individual shot from the barrel of the son-of-a-bitch's gun to his body. Quin's eyes — pointed towards me — glazed over as the cop let go of his limp body, letting it fall into the street as a pool of blood began to form around him. My ears rang, wails of agony and his name leaving my throat in dry heaves as I ran and dropped to my knees. I reached out for his head, pulling it into my lap as I cradled it, sobbing into his short, black hair.

I swore at the officers, who stepped back slightly at my wails. More red and blue lights flashed around us as officers and curious residents began to swarm the area. I reached for my phone, which I had dropped after the last bullet pierced Quin's body, stopping the recording and saving it. Unfortunately, that recording, as I figured, would come in handy.

Sobs worked their way through my body as I collapsed onto the bathroom floor. My mother pulled me into her arms, placing a kiss onto my forehead and rubbing my arm.

"It's going to be okay, Lynn," I began to hyperventilate, my thoughts and emotions going into overdrive as the play-by-play turned into a heartbreaking, soul-wrenching memory of how I lost my boyfriend and best friend. Quintavias Martin. The honor roll student. The football captain, Black Lives Matter activist, and former cheerleader. The dork, cocky jerk, shoulder to cry on, person to talk to. Now turned into the current hashtag.

My mother helped me remove my white dress and ran a bath, helping me sit. She washed my hair — the kinky, thick mess — offering to get the dress cleaned at the dry cleaners tomorrow morning. She knew it was my favorite dress. I knew it was Quin's. I haven't worn that dress since.

After I'd changed into my pajamas, she made me some homemade chicken noodle soup, but I refused. I wouldn't eat a full meal for 3 weeks, snacking on small portions of crackers and fruit snacks to keep me alive. I'd drop 30 pounds, from a slightly overweight young woman to a doctor's "healthy weight." I'd never gain that weight back.

After my mother rushed off to tell the officers we wouldn't be coming in tonight, I'd unlock my phone to see a picture of Quin and me at homecoming. I'd straightened my hair, which was long, reaching the bottom of my back. I'd schedule a hair appointment to chop it off the next week. I'd never wear my hair long again.

I'd never be the same girl I was when I left with Quin early that evening. Those cops took that girl away when they murdered Quin tonight, and just like him, she'll never return.