(TW for gun violence)
I had never really seen a true display of police brutality in front of me, for all of the fourteen years I'd been alive. Countless cases of harassment, but nothing savage.
Dallas Winston changed that.
Dallas Winston changed a lot of things.
The sounds of bullets entering a human body have never left me.
I'll always wonder why he didn't scream when he hit the ground. He just dragged himself towards the cops, cursing and spitting at them in his last breaths. Some of the bullets ricocheted. One nicked me in the meat of my forearm, and I was so caught up in the pain of losing another member I didn't notice until we got back home.
Still have a scar.
Still have a lot of scars, but that was the only physical one that week left me with.
The case was never published as it should have been. No, instead he got the name of vagrant, delinquent, attempted murderer. People were upset that he even got a funeral, but we all made sure he did. Buried him right next to Johnny.
I wish my last memory of him was of him carrying us out of the fire, and not of his glassy eyes, still wet with grief.
Dallas Winston changed a lot of things.
I wonder why he never changed himself.
But in a way, I guess he did. Because the old Dally, I think, would have loaded the gun.