Rifiuto: Non Miriena

1995

It had taken the paramedics an hour and a half before they could fully remove the boy from his girlfriend's body. Kathleen had pulled her son into her arms, regardless of the blood that stained his hands, his face, and held him as he sobbed, screaming Rowan's name over and over. As the paramedics covered the girl's body with a sheet, and the police, who had arrived not long after, took statements, including samples of Rowan's blood from Timmy's hands, Kathleen had kept a tight hold on her children. Once everything had been taken care of and Rowan's small body rushed off to the morgue, people had slowly dispersed, silently returning to their homes and lives. Mr. Gallagher had rushed home, only to discover that his only child had been murdered feet from their doorstep.

Doors shut and locked, curtains were pulled and the street fell quiet; all knew, that no matter the efforts, the killer would never be caught, and Rowan Gallagher would be just another name in the long list of sacrifices given in the name of the Troubles and the fight for freedom.

Dinner was quiet; no one spoke, barely anyone ate. Sarah kept darting gazes to her brother, who stared at the food on his plate, tears clouding his vision. A dark laugh bubbled in his throat, as the lyrics to u2's famous ballad popped into his head:

We eat and drink while tomorrow they die.

How ironic.

How ironic that he got to sit down to dinner with his family, with the love of his life now lay in the morgue, a hole in her chest, the beating of her beautiful, innocent heart snuffed out thanks to a rubber bullet. How ironic, that his parents got to hold him and Sarah, kiss them again, while Mr. and Mrs. Gallagher never would. With Rowan's blood now spilled and drying dark and stiff on the sidewalk, life seemed a whole lot... darker than before. Would they never escape the violence that filled their land and tainted every inch of their lives? Would they never be free of the horror and destruction their country was facing? Or were they destined to follow in Rowan's footsteps, to become casualties of the North's conflict with England?

Would they never live to see peace, to see their country united and whole?

"May I be 'scused?"

John set his mug down, forcing himself to take a bite, though he, like the rest of the family, didn't feel like eating. "Ye need t' finish dinn'r, Timothy."

"John." Kathleen's gentle admonishment didn't go unnoticed by the kids. "Timmy jus' los'..." She stopped, biting her lip. "We jus' watch'd... Rowan jus'..." She glanced at her children, saw how her son did nothing more than push the mashed potatoes around on his plate. "John, don'."

The young captain sighed, turning back to his son. "One bite, Timmy, tha's all I'ma askin'." The boy looked up at his father, green eyes red.

A moment passed, before the boy slid a small bit onto his fork and took a bite, dropping the utensil and getting up from the table before his parents could protest. "I'ma done." Then, without another word, he darted out of the kitchen and upstairs. The sound of his bedroom door slamming caused the rest of the family to jump.

Once behind his closed bedroom door, he let the tears fall, moving to his bed and curling up on it. It wasn't possible; just hours ago, Rowan had been alive, smiling and happy and... and alive. And now...

And now she was dead. Shot through the heart, feet from her front door. Everything they'd been planning, all their shared secrets, the hopes for the future they'd talked about... marriage, children... all those dreams were gone, ripped away from them as fast as the bullet had ripped through her chest. Any hope for a future together had died as Rowan lay on the pavement, bleeding out, the blood staining the cement beneath her. It wasn't fair.

He let out a scream, as heart-wrenching as Mrs. Gallagher's screams had been, and lashed out, sending the lamp smashing to the floor. He didn't care if his parents scolded him for losing his temper, he didn't care the punishment he received; losing Rowan, watching the light fade from her eyes as he held her in his arms was punishment enough- it would be a punishment he would live with for the rest of his life, for he was certain he would never move on, could never move on. Rowan was the love of his life, of that he was sure. And he had lost her, just as he had lost so many friends and family, to the evil of this disgusting conflict.

He sat up, looking around for something, but what he wasn't sure. His gaze landed on the closet door, and he stood, making his way towards it. Pulling it open, he studied the bar that hung across the inside, just high enough that the clothing hung an inch off the floor. A brief moment of panic flashed through his mind as his gaze landed on Sarah's skipping rope, laying across the back of his desk chair. He, Rowan and Sarah had played with it only last weekend, taking turns on the pavement in front of the house; it was the last time the three of them had all been truly happy, truly innocent.

Sniffling, he made his way to the desk, picking it up. A quick tug told him it was sturdy enough, and certainly long enough. He quickly tied one end around the bar, before fashioning a crude noose out of the other end. He didn't hear the footsteps on the stairs, or Sarah's voice as she made her way towards his room at the end of the hall.

Instead, he focused on slipping the noose around his neck, and then knelt, as best he could, on the floor of the closet. A soft whimper escaped his throat as he leaned forward, feeling the rope start to tighten. Would it be painful? Or just like falling asleep?

As darkness began to overtake him, he distantly heard the door to his bedroom bang open, followed by Sarah's voice, and then her frantic screams.

"Timmy! Timmy! Mams! Da! Call an ambulance! Timmy!"