Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Suicide aftermath and recovery, online bullying/trolling, alcohol abuse, physical abuse, and alluded to/referenced childhood sexual abuse.
As always if any of these are triggers for you please contact me at enbysaurusrex and I will email you a version of this story edited to remove your personal triggers so that you can continue to enjoy this story with out stress, anxiety, or harm to your mental health.
Love y'all RAWR! ~💗ENBYsaurus
-Round Top Texas, Friday 12:18pm CST-
Walking on the balls of her feet, Marisa bounced herself up and down with a steady rhythm that seemed perfectly constructed for the task at hand.
Step bounce, bounce, step bounce, bounce, step bounce, bounce.
Only it wasn't working. Tears ran down her cheeks in muted rivers as she cried as quietly as possible, not wishing to disturb anyone else beneath the somber shadow that had fallen across her home. Her baby brother, cheek resting on Marisa's shoulder, wobbly neck and delicate head supported by her free hand made a small displeased sound that reminded her of a bleating lamb.
Pacing back and forth, to and fro, the girl had lost track of how many times she had run laps around the hallway. Sleep-deprived, deep in mourning, and at her wit's end she was doing her best. Only her best didn't seem good enough. Dirty bottles and used dishes were stacked in dry crusted heaps amid food brought by friends and neighbors in the kitchen. Laundry choked the hallway, and trash was beginning to pile up and make the whole house smell like a landfill.
Outside, the family was depending on strangers hired last minute by her Tio Luis to keep the animals well and the ranch running. A few boys from neighboring farms came around to help after school, it was always apparent which ones were doing it out of kindnesses and which ones had been tasked with the extra work by their parents. The chores and housework took many hands as well, women some of whom Marisa couldn't recall ever meeting before came to help tidy up, but in spite of their efforts is seemed that every day the mess only grew.
"Please, please just go to sleep!" Marisa begged, her voice a low, desperate warble.
He'd been fed, burped, and changed, what more could he want? She wondered, turning to kiss him on his soft, smooth hair. It seemed like all he did was cry; cry, eat, poop, and sometimes sleep.
Her eyes drooping and bones made of lead, the girl had struggled to get much if any sleep herself, since ... Everything.
Everything ... hurt. Why did everything hurt so much? Marisa took a shuddering breath as she fought against an overwhelming wave of emotion.
Tears stinging her eyes, defeat in her heart, she walked apprehensively to her parent's room where she edged the door open. There, engulfed by her own grief and drowning in pain, lay the girl's Mama. Marisa wondered if maybe now she could bring her the baby, or if seeing him would only bring her more tears. Guilt eroded the girl from within when she thought this, the notion that maybe Mama even hated the baby lingering. All Mama did anymore was sleep, sleep and cry. She couldn't be bothered to change or even feed her newborn son.
It had been Marisa's idea to move the baby into the room she shared with Ana after that first night of waiting and waiting for Mama to acknowledge his tears. She never did, deaf to his cries, the pleas of her daughters, and even the endless stream of news regarding the "Jurassic World Incident." Rosa wasn't a mother anymore, but a woman grieving the loss of her truest love.
These new sleeping arrangements, especially when little Georgia was added to the dog pile, resulted in two inexperienced teenage "mothers" doing their best to hold their broken family together.
Still, she needed sleep too.
Marisa stepped into the room and froze, her stomach in knots. Staring down at the bare concrete floor beneath her foot, the hairs rose sharply on the back of her neck. That was right, the thought swam in the back of her mind, Tio Luis had to rip up all the carpeting. Backing hurriedly out of the room Marisa choked on her tears.
Daddy!
Images of his smiling face, the sound of his laughter, every disrespectful thing she'd ever said to him struck her like a hammer fall to the chest. He was gone. He was dead. She was never going to see him again.
The fourteen-year-old blamed herself, she should have been here, stayed with him! Mama had had lots of kids, she knew what she was doing. She shouldn't have left him alone.
Trying not to scream, the disembodied moment came rushing back to her. They were at the hospital, she'd been so worried for her sister she'd made herself sick in the car, knowing that Sammy was trapped on island of death far from reach and there was nothing she could do about it. Yet she was smiling, why was she smiling? She couldn't remember a reason worth smiling anymore ... That was right, she was smiling down at her new born brother, braiding her mother's hair back, and telling her what a good job she'd done, and how proud she was.
That was when Abryan drifted in, white as a sheet, trembling, eyes vacant, a police officer on either side. That was when she'd heard the news for the first time, and even now she still couldn't believe it, she was numb in a way, floating. It couldn't be real.
The funeral was tomorrow.
The thought clicked into place when passing the living room she saw her Tio Luis sleeping heavily on the couch. For a second, and only a second, he had looked so much like her father that her heart bled. He'd driven non-stop to be there that night, and put the family up in a hotel. Then he'd pulled up the carpeting, replaced the mattress, sheets, and blankets; washed, cleaned, and repainted the bedroom all before Rosa or the girls could see what had become of their father and husband. Then without so much as a word to them he'd driven Abryan home, only to reappear late the very next day.
Marisa was torn in the way she thought about him. He hadn't cried, not that she'd seen, not once. The girl couldn't decide if that made him incredibly brave, or as a bitter voice in her head whispered, incredibly heartless.
No, she shook her head, he's strong, and hurting just as bad, and he'd had to do the unimaginable to protect them from ... seeing it ...
Turning to leave the girl let a curse rip from her lips when she clipped her elbow against the wall. The teen just didn't give a fuck anymore, and she doubted if anyone else did at this rate, either. At her explosive reaction however, the infant in her arms went rigid, air caught in his throat. Frightened, Marisa lowered him down so that she could see his face, his lips were quickly turning blue.
"Breathe," she commanded in a frightened whisper. "Breathe! Breathe!" Panicking she jiggled his tiny body back and forth before remembering a trick Abuela had taught her and blew into the baby's face. He immediately sucked in a lungful of air before letting it out again in a high pitched wail. Hugging her brother tightly to her chest Marisa let out a cry of her own as she fell crisscross to the floor.
She was tired, so very tired.
Eight days. It had taken only eight days for her entire life to be destroyed. Eight fucking days.
Marisa gave a start when she felt a hand on her shoulder, she looked up as her Abuela whispered, "Mija."
It took everything within the girl not to start bawling as her grandmother carefully stooped down and took the baby from her. "Go and sleep with your sisters. I've got him," The woman instructed, running a finger gnarled by arthritis lovingly down the side of her face.
Nodding Marisa gratefully obeyed.
"Oh Mijo," Abuela sighed, her voice thin with grief and age, as she cradled the crying baby. "There are so many reasons to cry today, and there will be even more reasons in the future, but that is life."
Beginning to pace along the hallway as Marisa had been the venerable woman walked at an eased pace. Her eyes half closed she continued to gently talk to him, of things one can only learn through age and heartbreak. Finally she found herself sitting in her rocking chair, continuing to speak to him as they rocked.
"You're going to grow up, and wonder why your Papa did what he did." she mused after a while. "You're going to wonder how he could leave his family, leave you. There may even come a time when you think he was weak," she said voice failing, before she steeled her nerves.
"Mijo, your Papa was not weak, he was strong, and he fought for a long time. He just forgot that he wasn't in the battle alone. He forgot that it's alright to make mistakes, it's alright to be wrong. He forgot that he had a family to share his burdens, and he took it all on himself." She let out a sob, remorseful tears rolling down her cheeks, having struggled to keep everything afloat, to plan a funeral with no money with which to pay for it. They were going to lose everything to ChrÃtiano's gambling debts.
After a moment to collect herself Abuela continued, "Just remember Mijo, your Papa wasn't a perfect man, he made mistakes, but he was an incredible father, and he loved you so very much."
"Christiánito," Abuela murmured then, smoothing the baby's soft black hair. "Your Papa loved his family so much, that in the end, it was the thought of failing them that killed him."
Weeping the old woman continued to rock as she watched a muted news stream, closed captioning appearing in large lettering across the screen. Sammy was out there, she thought, somewhere, and if God was good, she'd come home to them again, and help their family start to heal. If God was good …
- Boston Massachusetts, Friday 5:20pm EST -
The room was thick with static, heavily weighing down on its occupants with an all-encompassing sense of defeat and doom, which no one dared give name to or acknowledge.
Candice and Nika's apartment had become the family's base of operations as the four of Brooklynn's parents huddled together hard at work for nearly a week now.
Cameron had sent out feelers, gotten in touch with old contacts, and channeled his charm and determination to make new ones. He'd called, emailed, and appealed to every travel guide and agency he had ever worked with. He hadn't stopped once even when all he seemed to find were dead ends. The embassy, already swarmed with calls, was curt, leaving the man to seek out and call local businesses and agencies. His Spanish was rusty but adequate. Gleaning what information he could, if any, he seemed to be coming up with a tentative plan. In this plan, the family had cautiously placed all of their hope.
"Stupid mother-fucking cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch!" Emily railed, breaking the silence as she leapt to her feet, staring angrily at her phone, teeth on edge.
"Emily!" a chorus of voices rang out as Cam, Nika, and Candice scolded her.
"That kind of stress is no fucking good for the baby!" Nika reminded her, snatching the device away as she did so. "Besides, I thought I told you to take a break!"
Turning the screen towards her, its light illuminating her deep brown complexion, Nika's eyes flooded immediately with tears. She felt weak in the knees, and had to brace herself on the armrest of the sofa.
"It's alright, it's fine. I'm fine," she lied, her throat tight and strangled for want of air. She pressed her hand hard against her stomach, God she hated people.
"If I ever find the son-of-a-whore who made that video –" Emily began in a quavering tone, before her husband could make his way towards her. He hugged her from behind, both hands resting on the precious little bump in her belly as he begged her to calm down, tears beginning to flow.
"It's just …" Nika choked on a swell of vomit blooming in the back of her throat. "It's just some sad little troll living in his mother's basement, making stupid gifs. It's fine. We have more important things to worry about."
"I can't get a flight," Cameron intoned, just as Candice demanded to see the phone. "But I'm going to keep trying."
Lips pressed together into a thin line, Nika gave in to her wife's request, against her better judgement. There on the screen was a poorly-cropped image of Brooklynn's face imposed over a deer, as several komodo dragons tore it apart in a scene stolen from one nature documentary or another. Candice was trembling, her eyes wide absorbing the horrific scene as it repeated itself in a loop.
"Why can't they stop?" she whispered with scarcely any voice to be heard as her strong veneer broke. "Why can't they just stop?"
Enveloping her in an embrace, Nika gently eased them to the couch as they cried.
It was endless. As many well wishes, gifts, sympathies, and funds as they had received in the wake of the crisis and Brooklynn's disappearance, the hateful commentary, ridicule, and mockery outnumbered any goodwill by tenfold.
These people were so far removed from the situation, and so unfeeling towards the anguish Brooklynn's family was going through, aiming to add more to their suffering in pursuit of meaningless internet acclaim and accolades. They made memes, gifs, and videos; choked the phone lines, emails, and sites the family had set up, meant for getting in contact with any survivors who might have seen Brooklynn in one of the makeshift hospitals, all while hating a sixteen-year-old girl merely for being more successful than they were themselves.
It was a toxic and corrosive form of hatred that scourged the hearts of her parents. They struggled in vain to keep themselves grounded when it seemed easier to just swim down, give into the grief, and just give up, as so many of those hateful strangers encouraged them to.
The phone, the one with the contact number vibrated, was ignored for much of the day after a slew of false reports and harassment, reminding them all that it was still there.
"I think we all need a break," Cameron said, taking the crying women in at a glance before staring hard at the device. "At least to get something to eat, and you need to sleep." He looked pointedly at his girlfriend.
Emily opened her mouth to argue, but Candice cut in with a firm tone, seemingly grateful to have a momentary distraction. "He's right. Think of the baby. Besides, I'll tie you to the bed myself if I have to."
Wiping her face roughly, the woman willed her tears to stop as she stood and moved to the kitchen. Rummaging through the cupboards she produced two boxes of macaroni and cheese, one white, one yellow. Turning she held them up for appraisal, her eyes begging for one brief second of normalcy where she wasn't caught in the throes of grief.
"Yellow," Cameron and Emily chimed in at the same time Nika declared, "White."
"See?" Candice asked with a forced smile. "This is exactly why we couldn't make it as a couple."
A small, polite, bout of laughter rolled around the room.
"If you've got peas and tuna we can make a real meal out of it," Cam commented, walking over to the cabinet near the stove.
Lingering in the living room, Emily and Nika watched Brooklynn's biological parents working hard to find a harbor in this hellstorm of uncertainty. Both women, for the most fleeting of seconds, asked themselves if their sorrow was somehow misplaced. After all Brooklynn wasn't "really" their daughter.
Fuck that. Brooklynn was every bit a part of them as the marrow in their bones. She was theirs, and they were hers, and they would happily die of it meant seeing her again.
Getting up, Nika ran a hand down her face before taking a swing of stale soda, whose ownership could no longer be identified. While the world around her seemed maddeningly chaotic and reasonless, everything within the kitchen, and the apartment by extension, seemed to be more or less under control at this point. She assessed one more time, confident in her plan before grabbing the cell from where it lay.
Nudging Em with the back of her free hand, she announced, "I'm going to the bathroom."
Emily was quiet for a second, her well maintained eyebrows curved with skepticism before she reached out and looped a finger in the pocket where Nika had stashed the phone.
"What happened to taking a break?" she asked, halting the other woman in her tracks.
"I will, when I eat, promise." she countered pecking Emily on the crown of her head, pulling away and moving towards the hall. "Besides you've got to take care of yourself, and the little one, you know how excited Brookie Woo –" her voice broke but Nika blinked back her tears and pressed on. "How excited she is about being a big sister."
Emily gave a saddened smile, but nodded her understanding.
Slipping away without further notice or interruption, the woman made her way to the master bathroom. Letting out a nervous breath as she sat peeing, Nika opened up the voicemail and began listening to all the devastating messages that had been left.
Her ears were immediately assaulted by pre-recorded dinosaur calls. Ripping the device from her ear, she angrily erased message after message of much the same; dinosaur calls, news reports, and the soulless cackle of assholes reveling in their pain flooded through her mind.
Interwoven with all of this hate and cruelty were so many people claiming to know where Brooklynn was. With no two people claiming to have seen her in the same location, it was anybody's guess which of these calls were reliable, if any. Those with laughter in the background easily ruled out, Nika's heart hung heavy with a kind of despairing hope as she listened to the rest, using her eyeliner, the only tool at hand, she scribbled anything promising on her thigh.
"Hello?" a woman's voice broken with sorrow filled the line, but jaded Nika was far from inclined to believe the tears she heard. "My name is Monica Bowman, my son Darius was with Brooklynn at Camp Cretaceous, I was hoping that maybe you knew something about where they might be –"
Nika deleted the message; she didn't need another false lead, people pretending to be in the same situation only to be revealed as liars later when their conversations were leaked online. Camp Cretaceous had been exclusive, a beta, that was part of the allure promised to Brooklynn when she was offered the chance to "unbox" it. Yet the family had received close to a hundred calls from people alleging that they had children at the camp.
"Hi, I'm calling to talk to you about your car's extended –" Delete.
"I saw a girl with pink hair that kinda looked like Brooklynn in one of the tents in Puerto Moin, where my family got evacuated to! If that's her my name is Lacy Au –" Saved.
"She's dead, just accep -" Deleted.
"Wuzup!" Delete
Call after call, after call, after –
"Hi, I'm sorry. I know you've got a lot on your plate I understand, but it's Monica Bowman again. I -" That bitch was persistent. Deleted!
"Fuck that pinkhhaired whor –" Deleted.
"I hope she's –" Deleted.
"Hi, this is Stacy. I'm a volunteer with the Red Cross, we have your daughter here in Puntarenas, at least we think it's your daughter. Kinda hard to tell through all the T-Rex shi -" Deleted.
"This is Monica Bo –" Delete!
Nika's thumb had reacted faster than her mind had. She hadn't meant to erase the message that time. There was something off, something wrong about the way that woman sounded. The calls had all been placed close together, her voice had become more ragged and filled with air, as if she'd been crying, and hard. Maybe, just maybe, this Monica Bowman had been genuine.
Anxiety settled into the pit of Nika's stomach, and she listened with mounting desperation through the messages, praying that Monica had called again.
"Hi, um …" a young man's voice filled the line, Nika was poised to dismiss it all together when he said, "This is Brandon Bowman, my mom's been trying to contact someone. My-my brother Darius -" the hairs on the back of Nika's neck rose at the sound of the boy on the other end of the line breaking down.
"Please call us back! Please! My brother! Our number is –" Nika penned the digits, this was too much to be a coincidence, or a prank, this was the lead they had been praying for.
Leaping up she rushed out of the bathroom, catching herself on the foot of the bed when, entangled by her underwear, Nika tripped and fell.
"I have something!" she screamed, yanking her panties up and racing to the living room. "I have something!"
It wasn't the kind of lead they had been hoping for, but it was something.
-Westchester New York, Saturday 3:06am EST-
The too-bright room spun, rolling and tossing like oceanic waves that threatened to swallow Candy whole.
She was drowning. Drowning in the room. It constantly shifted without purpose or planning, the floor falling away into nothingness as she tried to set her feet on something, anything solid.
Recoiling from the open air her breath was hot against her face, sweltering, smothered by a thick entanglement of blankets. She was drowning. Drowning in the bed.
It restrained her, holding her captive with shackles and bonds made of knotted sheets, and winding blankets.
Rank liquid splashed across her face and trickled along her neck and as bottles toppled and rolled in a noisy clamour across the mattress. She was drowning. Drowning in the bottle. It robbed her of her cares, her senses, clouding out judgement, grief, and guilt alike.
Her head ached dully, only a dark nameless void where Candy was supposed to be remained. She was drowning. Drowning in her mind, and nothing could make it better ...
The woman tumbled free from her prison at some point, making a jarring contact with the cold and unforgiving natural stone flooring as she did. Her head hurt from where it had smacked against the ground, but Candy was scarcely aware of it, only the anger and indignation she felt that the floor would even dare. Muted by her grief, and ruminative from the alcohol she traced slow, somber tracks in the formation of hues and shades in the floor.
"Pretty," she announced to no one after a long while.
Hours, or even days, seemed to pass her by. Time had lost all meaning since that first day, since discovering she had sent that boy, sent Kenji to his death.
She was sad.
So sad.
She didn't have a right to be sad.
He wasn't her child.
Not her child.
She heard them talk, the people, the ones who made sure she ate and tended to the cleaning. They weren't her family, they weren't her friends, they weren't even her employees. She was nothing to them. So they treated her with just enough courtesy, and spent not a thought more on the woman they all envied and despised in equal measure. She had what they all wanted, what they coveted, and all she had to do was put out for the man whose lavish home they worked in. Not one of them empathized with her, in fact they were downright spiteful in the wake of her sorrow, chattering incessantly behind her back over her perceived ruse.
Kenji wasn't her child, not by blood, or adoption, or the virtue of any legal binding contract, or even by love. He didn't love her, she cared for him, immensely, but was that the same? No, she had no right to feel the way she did, not if you asked anyone beyond the threshold of the bedroom. Yet, for all their differences, for the way he couldn't stand her, Candy did care. She felt immeasurably responsible, after all it had been her well-intentioned idea.
How did the saying go? "No good deed goes unpunished?" Only Kenji was the one being punished.
A flash, that scene, that terrible, horrific wretched scene, darted across the nexus of her conscious mind. The panicked throngs of horrified, fleeing people. Their bodies cramped tightly together in one enormous crowd as death rained down upon them from the sky. The camera panned right as the videographer tried to squeeze their frame through a gap in the masses, then it happened, a winged monster fell like an arrow into the sea of bodies, and in a shower of blood, the man's head was gone.
Sitting Candy covered her mouth and wept.
She wished she hadn't seen it, wished the news had cut the feed just a little quicker, wished that it hadn't had happened at all, but she did, they didn't, and it had.
Stumbling into the bathroom, a slow leak of backwash trickling into her mouth the woman gave only a half-interested look at the pale, disheveled form that stared back at her from the mirror. Its knotted hair, bloodshot eyes, and large purple knot on its forehead. Candy knew the hapless creature she saw, but not as herself, as something she hated, pitied, and was ashamed of.
Turning on the water, the young woman relished the deep, radiating warmth that unbound her tight, aching muscles. The sound and pressure from shower made her head pound, but it was well worth it for the ebb she felt as her body gave way, and seemed to release its long-held tension.
It had been over a week since the fall, over a week since all of the blood and the carnage, only a week, and already in many ways the world seemed to have moved on.
Sure, the news still covered the story, talks of reparations circulated through the airways along with harrowing first hand accounts from survivors, aerial footage of the island and the medical tents were a common sight, but more often now it was the same shots played over and over again, with the same, or eerily similar voice overs describing to the audience what they were witnessing. Celebrity gossip was a thing again, the first herald that for most people, the crisis and their interest in it had passed.
Josiah was gone.
He'd left the day it had happened, or was it the day after? It was late, night by the time most of the people started getting evacuated. Then it was evening again when Candy had been informed that her boyfriend was away, "away on business."
Again the people, his people, the servants began to talk behind her back. Had he fled the public eye to escape his sizable amount of culpability? Then again that was something his attorneys were dealing with. Had he neglected the ordeal all together and truly departed for a business venture elsewhere on the global theater? Or, unlikely as it seemed, had he gone to do something about the disaster he had helped create?
Candy didn't know the answers to any of these questions, or any of the others that ran circuits in her brain. Though some rang out above the rest, chiming with a self-loathing and shame untold.
Who was the boy she had sent to his death and now mourned?
What did she even really know about Kenji other than his superb taste in video games and hair care products?
How could someone have been in Candy's life for so long, and yet she seemingly knew nothing about them?
Slowly her mind began to work at the puzzle.
He was smart, smarter than he let on or even realized. He was funny, sarcastic, and hurting. He had been hurting well before Candy had come into the picture. It was obvious to everyone, except maybe his father. She liked Kenji, wanted to try and mend fences and be friends if she could, but that was it. She wasn't around much, kept on a tight, diamond-studded leash, always going where she was told, doing what was expected of her, looking pretty at all the right events, and because of that she never really got the chance to get to know him.
She was going to have to stay with Josiah now. The thought swam to the forefront of her mind so suddenly and with such clarity it seemed preordained.
There could be no escape.
No return to her life before.
No hope of leaving a man she thought she had loved only to be treated as a disposable accessory, property, something to be put on display and nothing else.
She was trapped.
A pretty little bobble to be coveted and admired.
How could she leave him now, even for the sake of her own happiness, after what she'd put him through? It was her fault his son was dead. Her fault if his company fell to ruin. Her fault if he lost everything that had any meaning or value to his life.
The expensive things and extravagant dinners were nice, but they didn't truly make Candy happy. She wanted love, wanted a family, wanted authenticity, and freedom, but with Josiah she knew that she would never have any of it.
Slowly the tears began to flow. Before long Candy was crying. Her heart hurt. Her head hurt. Everything just hurt, and she couldn't get away from it, from him.
Like a flash of light, the woman heard her own line of reasoning. She was selfish, so incredibly selfish! Screaming and pulling her own hair, Candy burned with a hatred for herself for dwelling on her unhappy, controlling relationship. What is a little misery when compared to the vast amount of lost life? To losing your child? After a minute, the fight died away, and her body began to feel heavy again, so heavy.
"Please Kenji be okay," she whispered in a bereft prayer as she sagging onto the tiled shower floor, beginning to drift off to an alcohol-induced slumber.
Candy hated herself. She was drowning. Drowning in her loathing.
Candy didn't deserve happiness. She was drowning. Drowning in her sorrow.
Candy was to blame. She was drowning. Drowning in her guilt.
She was drowning.
Drowning.
Drowning.
Candy needed help, but no one saw.
No one cared.
She was just, drowning...
- Omaha Nebraska, Friday 4:42pm DST -
Boredom in the face of helplessness was perhaps the worst feeling on earth, Lailah thought. She sat isolated, an island unto herself on the couch of her apartment, with nothing to do, and nothing to take her mind off the terrible circumstances her family faced.
Sisters from the Masjid had been over every day, taking their duty in shifts around the clock. Together they cleaned and cooked and spoke in comforting tones; reciting, praying, and reading verses from the Qur'an they felt might be of some comfort or solace in these most trying times. They tended to the Fadoula family as if they were their own, and in a sense they were, because this was how the community came together in a crisis.
It was almost startling how the same common bond of faith, which more often than not left them feeling so alone and hated by the world as individuals, could also make them feel unconditionally loved, valued, and a part of something more than themselves in the same measure. The sadaqah, or charity, of these women however, left not a particle of dust on the floor, a plate left empty, or any need no matter how insignificant unfulfilled, and so Lailah was left with nothing to do, nothing but sit, and wait and dwell on Yasmina's absence.
Ahmed, the son she was so immensely proud of yet missed so dearly, had returned home not two days ago. He shouldn't have put his schooling on hold, not after working so hard to get there, Lailah thought in a train of detachment from the situation. His education was too important. Yet here he was, the shock worn away, leaving behind only rage and a need for answers, a need for someone to blame, someone to pay. Jamil had been caught and kindled by the fire of their son's rage, reflecting it as his own, and together they blazed a warpath trying to find someone to pin the culpability to.
Sameera slept. It was all she seemed to do now; cry, eat when she was forced to, and sleep. It was almost like having a baby in the house again, but in a grim, bitter way, as the cavity in the family's hearts grew.
Lailah gave a distant half-hearted word of thanks as sister Hasana set out some warm tea and fig cakes. It was incredible, Lailah thought after a while, how after all this time she was only now realizing what her tiny kitchen could produce as she looked at the almost-too-delicate pastries. She needed to cook from scratch more, and not just dinner, she resolved, when things went back to normal, when Yasmina came home, when –
The breath caught in the woman's throat. Battling against tears, she forced herself to take a flakey biscuit, and give it a nibble. It was good, better than she could have done, but it did little to take the metallic taste of grief from her tongue.
It was as Lailah ate, quietly regaining her composure, that the door to her bedroom burst open with such energy that the handle struck the wall, leaving behind a sizable hole. Red-faced, fists clenched, Ahmed glanced back at what he'd done, letting out a curse, and kicking an inconveniently-placed laundry basket out of his way before offering a blunt word to his parents.
"Mama, Baba, I'll fix it later, but I just can't be here right now," he explained, stalking across the apartment and towards the front door.
"Ahmed, habibi, what is the matter?" the woman asked, heart fluttering in her throat as she tried to swallow her anxiety.
"Let him go," Jamil sighed, exiting the bedroom with much less fanfare than his son. With the weight of the world hanging off his shoulders the man moved with slow, lumbering strides. "Just, let him go."
Approaching his wife where she sat, the law student seemed to have aged ten years in as many days. Lailah watched the sisters scurry out the front door to give them privacy as her husband fidgeted with his phone, his gaze heavy and troubled. Lailah waited with as much patience as she could muster as her husband ordered his thoughts, shushing a concerned Sameera who poked her head out of the bedroom to examine the damaged wall as she waited.
At last, when their youngest had returned to her room and her deep, heavy slumber, Jamil ran a hand through his hair and let out a pent breath. He seemed ready to share dire news. Yasmina was dead, they all feared it, a part of them accepted it in their hearts, but now there could be no hope. Lailah was blinded by terror, but willed herself to be strong enough to receive the long-dreaded confirmation of her deepest fears. Still, growing up in an apartheid where news of this nature was commonplace, no mother was ever prepared to face the death of their child.
"They want to offer us monetary compensation," Jamil announced, his voice thick and full of gravel. "It's a very substantial amount of money, and there will be more if Yasmina is confirmed to be ... to be in Jina ..." he explained, unable to look up from a vacancy on the floor. "I think we should take it. It would be good for the family. Good for Sameera," he went on in a hollow tone.
Lailah's body went cold, as though she had just been plunged into an ice bath. This was far from what she had been expecting to hear from him, yet somehow it seemed to hurt much more. Staring, eyes wide, she couldn't comprehend what he was saying, or why. Who was this man? What had happened to her dear and loving husband, the father of her children? Recoiling from Jamil's nearness on the sofa, the woman felt only a burning contempt for the grieving stranger beside her.
"How could you?" she breathed in disbelief, her next words rising in a shrill scream as she yelled. "How could you even entertain such a thought? There is no amount of money worth our daughter – my daughter's life! How could you!"
The man remained pitifully silent beside her, shoulders arched, head low, defeated, as if he were caught in a tremendous gale from which he could find no shelter. Leaping to her feet, Lailah found that she could no longer remain idle. Pacing about the room her breath was coming in short gulps, until consumed by tears and rage she swung at her husband, striking him the shoulder, then the face, then all at once, all she could do was hit him, and cry, and scream out her pain and anger.
He didn't fight back, he didn't yell, he didn't defend himself or argue that her volatile actions were misplaced, instead he sat there, weathering her anger like he weathered the unseen storm he had been trapped in for days. Lailah's fire burned hot and bright, but died just as quickly as it had been ignited. She found herself at the end of her melee on the floor in tears, wrapped by her husband's embrace. He rocked her gently from side to side, pressing a kiss deep into her forehead as she melted into his arms.
"Nothing –" Lailah sobbed. "No amount of money could ever replace my baby!"
"I know that." Jamil whispered, tears standing in his eyes. "Don't you think I know that? Nothing, nothing can ever – will ever … I'm lost Lailah. Lost. I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do! My Yasmina, my precious little flower! My daughter! I – I'd give anything – these people have no answers for us. They just, they just want to make the problem disappear ... They want to pay us and make our beautiful Yasmina disappear ..."
The two clung to one another, until in a timorous voice Sameera said, "Mama, Baba, is everything ok?"
"For now," Jamil nodded, motioning for her to join them. Together they knelt in their mourning, clinging to one another as they trembled before the man glanced around, stood, and announced, "Get dressed."
"Why?" Sameera choked dubiously, still wound tight in her mother's embrace.
"Where are we going?" Lailah scoffed, already a fresh torrent written upon her face, a million unspoken questions and concerns held only just, at bay.
"To the movies," her husband announced, pulling off the shirt he hadn't changed out of in days.
Lailah laughed, malcontented, "Jamil, be serious, our daughter –"
"I don't want to go to the movies!" Sameera complained, her swollen eyes welling.
"Neither do I," he father admitted. "But we've been in this house for too long with our sadness and with nothing to do. It's not good for us. Get dressed. We're going to the movies," he said again with a calm, compassionate, authority.
Lailah wasn't sure how, or why, but it was a tone that made her feel safe, that reminded her why she loved him, and that he still had a heart. It wasn't about the money after all, and she had been ignorant and misguided to judge him so harshly, so quickly. He was doing the best he could with what he had, just like her. Lailah was wracked by guilt.
"Listen to your father," the woman instructed coolly as she got up and followed her husband into their bedroom.
Lailah watched as her husband searched through the closet for something to wear. His eyes were dull, glazed over, and he riffled through the same shirts over and over, unable to concentrate or make a decision. He sniffled back tears. Tiptoeing towards him, afraid to break the fragile walls he seemed to have built, Lailah knew how wrong she had been, and just how much she needed her husband.
Hugging him from behind she rested her head on his sweaty, hairy back, fresh tears stinging her eyes. How could she have ever raised a hand to him? She was a monster.
"Jamil, I – I'm so sorry." she croaked.
"You needed to get it out somehow," was all he said about what had happened. Turning to her, his eyes still downcast, Jamil pressed Lailah's fingers to his lips in the way he had since first declaring his love for her, and she knew all was already forgiven. "Get dressed my love, we need some breathing room."
Smiling weakly still flooded by shame Lailah moved towards her dresser ...
- Oakland, Friday 2:47pm PDT -
Sitting cross-legged on the end of her bed, Monica couldn't help but smile as she choked on her tears and the saline taste of her runny nose. Her little boy was having the time of his life, hamming it up for the camera, dancing around, the hood of his yellow jacket pulled down over his eyes as he imitated the call of a dilopho-whats-it.
"Then, all of a sudden it was totally like argh-waa eee-eee-EEE brrrr-RRRR-Rrrrrr!" the young man giggled rolling his R's with emphasis and skill, his hands held out in front of him in the shape of claws. Pawing at her face the woman beamed with pride and love at her little man, and the positive glow held in his gaze.
Her world rocked and shifted, bouncing her to one side as the bedsprings dipped, and bobbed beneath new weight. Monica paused the video and turned to Brandon who she hadn't realized had been talking to her until he'd sat down. He had his own phone in hand, screen turned towards her, laptop tucked under the same arm, burnt and bandaged hand cradled protectively near his chest as he tried to juggle the devices.
Blinking rapidly the woman willed her eyes to focus on the new screen before her. "Hmmm? I'm sorry baby, I wasn't paying attention. What were you saying?" she asked.
"We're all set up for the GoFundMe," Brand announced proudly, showing the disheartening request for financials, and their little goal meter right beneath a picture of Darius posing with the Camp Cretaceous logo plastered across the treehouse wall.
Monica's heart felt pierced just by looking at this fruitless plea for compassion. There were thousands of similar pages scattered all over the site, bogging it down and overloading the servers. There were so many desperate people requesting help locating loved ones, funding funerals, memorial services, medical care, rehabilitation, and prosthetics. In some of the most tragic cases entire families had been lost, leaving friends to try and make arrangements without any sort of compensation or aid from uncaring private and government sectors.
Then there were the fakes, the frauds, the liars and thieves. People posting false stories and raking in the reward of kindness and generosity, profiting off the deaths and injuries of innocent people in the most conniving and devious ways. It was because of these people and the site's moderators most sincere efforts to confront such scammers that Brandon's first dozen or so attempts to start a page had been thwarted. His each and every attempt met with skepticism, cynicism, and ultimately taken down as he struggled to prove the authenticity of their story.
Because of all this the woman had very strong doubts that they would receive any type of real help. Even the official numbers, and contacts so overrun by calls and emails seemed helpless. There were rumors of compensation checks already being paid out to families and survivors willing to sign settlement agreements, and even more talk of a grand jury court case being opened by the families against Jurassic World, its entities and subsidies, the now crumbling and defamed Masrani Global first in line at the guillotine.
"That's great baby, just great," the woman smiled, ignoring her own doubts, Monica put on the brave face her son needed.
The two nestled closely together as Brandon handed over his phone and opened his laptop. He needed something to do, to feel like he was helping, to feel like he had some amount of control, and that he could make a difference. It had been the same way when his father had gotten sick, when he'd died. It was why Monica had relented and allowed him to begin working in the first place. It wasn't fair that they were going through something like this again, that Brand was stretching himself so God-damned thin to try to fix an unfixable situation. He deserved better, he deserved a life, hell he deserved to be a teenager for once, forced to grow up way too fast, and determined to make sure his little brother didn't have to.
Brandon was a good kid, the best, and Monica couldn't even imagine how she would have gotten through this without him. Resting her head on the young man's shoulder, she breathed him in, cherishing the dimly lit memories that danced across her mind as she did. She loved the way her babies smelled, ever since they were fresh from heaven. Her thoughts fragmented and she found herself reaching for the shirt, the one she found pinned between the mattress and wall in Darius' room and breathed in the faint smell of him too. It took all she had in her not to break down, instead she focused solely on what her eldest had to say.
"So, we'll be able to collect donations here, and I already put out a word on Facebook. Lots of little man's teachers are already trying to see what they can do, organizing car washes, bake sales, community cleanups for donations and stuff," he explained, maneuvering between all the tabs he had opened.
"I also contacted all the churches and staff who helped us when … when dad got sick. I know, I know –!" he sighed with exasperation when Monica began to protest. "You hated asking for help to begin with, but I'm just trying everything I can think of, and First Baptist –"
Monica squeezed his arm, "It's okay," she sighed. "I'm not mad. Show me what else you've done."
"You sure you're not mad?" Brandon asked with cautious skepticism.
"Yeah, I'm sure," his mother nodded.
Brandon seemed to hesitate for a minute, as if there was something more he wanted to say, but was reluctant to share. He cleared his throat after a minute and pressed on, "So you know how they've cancelled all 'nonessential' flights to Costa Rica right, and how the US and Costa Rican governments are being real hard-asses about everything right now?"
"Mm-hmm," the woman nodded.
"Well, I was looking at flights to Managua, Nicaragua, it's only about a nine-ten-hour drive to the port where they have all the ships docked in Costa Rica." He navigated the route they would have to take on Google maps. "I'm sure we could maybe rent a car from the airport once we land and drive there. I don't know how the border check would work, I mean it's a totally different country, but we'd have our passports ..." he trailed off for a moment, chewing his bottom lip.
"Or, or!" he said loudly, interrupting his mother as she voiced her concerns, "If we wanted to save more money upfront we get a flight to Panama City. It's much cheaper. The drive from Panama City though is longer, like thirteen hours maybe, again border checks, but then once we got there we could check the med tents out ourselves, and if we saved enough money we could maybe find a fishing boat willing to take us to the island! You know like that stupid influencer who was arrested? Only we won't be streaming anything so we won't be caught!"
Monica didn't feel hopeful as Brandon laid out all of his plans. He wanted her to, and for his sake she wished she could feel hopeful, all she could feel was the insurmountable, daunting task before her. Even for all of his high hopes, his planning, his hard work the nurse just couldn't see a way to make this happen. And if it did happen what then? How were they supposed to find one little boy all alone in this mess?
"Those are, those are all really great ideas baby," she murmured, tracing the path Google had marked out for them. "We just have to remember that there are people with training out there looking for Darius and –"
"What does that mean?" Brandon snapped, pulling away.
"It means that even if we can't get there, that there are people –"
"You want to give up on him?" Brand asked with an accusatory glare.
"No, I'm not giving up on anyone," Monica replied, her tone hard and well steeled. "We're going to do all we can to bring your brother home safely no matter what it takes. I just … don't think we're going to get that kind of money."
The two were quiet for a while before Brand shifted in his seat and muttered, "Mom, there's something I need to tell you, and you can't get mad because I've already done it and there's no going back."
Monica's heart did a somersault, but she nodded her understanding.
"I applied for college full time, got a Pell Grant, and a loan." Brandon's gaze swam with tears as he stared at the door to Darius' room across the hallway. "After the school takes out the money for classes and books and shit whatever is left is mine, but I lied to those people. I'm not going to school mom, that money is for Darius. That money is to bring him home."
Monica stared aghast, tears flowing freely, she couldn't think, or breath, or believe what he had just said. She was just barely beginning to feel like her own student debt, let alone debt from losing Fredrick though far from paid off, under control, and now he had gone and done this? What if, what if it was all for nothing? What if Darius was gone? What if –
"Baby," she said at last, refusing to go down that route.
"Please don't be mad mom, please don't be mad! I had to! I just, he's my brother! I had to do it mom! I had to!" Brand cried as Monica bundled him up in her arms.
"Shh, it's okay I'm not mad. I'm not mad," she promised and the anger she did indeed feel slowly gave way to understanding. She'd already been considering selling the house, and pawning her ring. There wasn't anything she wouldn't do for her kids. And how lucky was she, that there wasn't anything that her boys wouldn't do for one another, either?
"Hey, hey. It's alright. As soon as you get that money in, we'll really start solidifying our plans, okay?" She forced a smile. "But for now let's watch your bro be a dork a little while, hmm?"
Brandon wiped his eyes and offered a half smile, "Yeah," he agreed. He'd watched every single one of the Brooklynn girl's videos at least a dozen times now, but hearing Darius' voice, seeing him happy, made it all a little more bearable somehow. "Yeah, let's do that."
Settling back they laughed and cried together as Darius and his camp friends joked and played around on screen.
"That one's Kenji, right?" Monica asked, pointing to the boy pounding on his chest like George of the Jungle.
"Yep, that's the one," Brandon confirmed with a lark.
"So he's the instigator," his mother smiled, she knew the other kids by name by now, but there was something comforting in this kind of reminiscing.
"Yeah, and there's the cowgirl." Brand pointed out Sammy, who, as she had put it in videos before, was having "a hoot-and-a-half" herself.
Misty-eyed, but comforted by their cobbled-together plans, they were finally starting to relax when a phone call interrupted their viewing.
"Six-one-seven?" Monica scoffed, sitting up and staring at the number. "617, what area code is that?"
Brandon was already busy with a web search and muttered, "Boston. Boston Massachusetts."
"We don't know anyone from –"
"Answer it! It could be –" Brandon started to shout, but already the realization had dawned on Monica as well.
"Hello?" she answered, her voice pinched and tight.
"Hello?" An equally taut and nervous tone from the other end of the line. "Is this Monica Bowman?"
Dizzy, heart hammering so loudly she could barely hear herself think she murmured, "This is she, who is calling?"
The man on the other end stalled only a moment before saying, "My name's Cameron, I'm Brooklynn's dad." At this, hope ignited like the fragile first rays of morning in the woman's battered heart, before he continued. "Are you really Darius' mom?" the man who sounded almost ready to cry asked. "I don't think I could take another –"
"My son Darius Fredrick Bowman was born on July 30th, 2003, at 3:17 in the afternoon. He weighed 7lbs 4oz, and 'Days of Our Lives' was on the TV. Bo had just employed Jack and Jennifer's help to find Hope after his strong-arming of Maya didn't work." Monica said firmly as if the very question had cut her to the core. "I didn't even watch that show before Darius, but it was the only thing on, and the epidural had worn off and I was too far along for another one so I needed something to focus on, don't you dare –"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" the man sobbed. "It's real, it's her, it's his mom, we're not alone anymore." Cameron was saying to someone else. Tearful joy burst through the speaker as the man kept repeating himself.
Tearfully, Monica looked up and met Brandon's gaze from where he sat holding his breath. "It's her parents," she whispered before repeating what the man had said, for the reality and weight of it didn't quite seem real. "We're not alone. Baby, we're not in this alone anymore!"
Embracing her oldest, she couldn't keep from saying it over and over, like a prayer, "We're not alone ..."
- Portland Oregon, Friday 6:16 PST -
Joseph sat staring at the white background just behind the black-lettered font on his computer screen, until the words had blurred themselves into as much insignificance as the room in which he sat. He'd taken a few days off of work, but sitting still wasn't the answer, it let Joseph's mind wander too far. He went back, but all of the flowers at his desk, and then the quiet avoidance of his coworkers was even worse. So now he was working remotely from home, just to have something to do, to pass the time, but even here, and now there was no escaping the pain.
The worst, most unforgivable part of it all was that he'd been here before, he thought distantly. He had been in this exact spot, in this exact hell where suddenly everyone seemed to know, but no one would say how his little boy was suffering. Where everyone wanted to help, but no one could. Where everyone looked at Joseph and wondered how he could have let this happen. Where everyone knew, but no one could admit, that if he had been a better man, a better father, that he could have prevented all of this from happening in the first place.
For over a week new anguish had clashed sharply against old wounds, reopening them like a hot, jagged blade, and now Joseph bleeding out.
It was all his fault.
He was a terrible father.
It was him, he had been the one to tell Sophie that her brother should stay with them while he wrapped up his last few credits of high school, and finished college. It was cheaper, Joseph had said, easier, nicer to have family so close. They'd had the spare room, and he'd already been staying with them off and on during the summers. Besides, he'd seemed so fond of little Ben, so good with him. And just like that Joseph had invited the devil himself into their home.
Shaking, the man pressed his fingers hard into his closed eyes until he saw colorful orbs dancing a ballet in the darkness. He didn't want to think of it, of how he'd let Ben down, put him in danger, how he'd failed him, how it had gone on for years without notice, how he had discovered the horrific truth. He didn't want to think of any of it, but it was all he could remember, as if he were living it all over again.
With a loud clatter, the desk chair rolled back quickly, only to get caught on the edge of the rug and crash to the floor as Joseph stood. His entire body shook violently as he began to pace, the air sucking in through a tightly constricted throat. He couldn't, he couldn't sit, stumbling around his small one room apartment he couldn't even seem to breathe, the memories; the fear and hurt and confusion in Ben's eyes, the way his little boy had clung to him, how he'd cried and said he was sorry, as if he had done something wrong. He was just a little boy, his little boy, he was hurt so badly.
Joseph couldn't stay there anymore.
Grabbing his keys, his wallet, his cell, he left. He just left. Barely conscious of the fact that his front door stood wide open, Joseph walked down the stairs of his apartment building. Moving in automated motions, the man relied on his body to take him where he needed to be, his mind too deeply enraptured by the past, and too entangled with the harrowing possibilities of the present to allow for anything else.
He'd been too late to protect Ben then, he'd tried to, in the end, and had the criminal record prove it, but he'd been too late.
Joseph got in the car and started the ignition. He wasn't sure where he was going, he wasn't even sure it mattered anymore. He was too late now, like then, only discovering the danger after the harm was already done.
The summers were supposed to be his, he thought then, as he had thought so often in the past several days. There was no written or formal agreement, but that was how it had been. The summers were his, but Sophie and the new Doc thought it would be good for Ben to be around kids his own age, to do kid things, to be pushed just slightly out of his comfort zone, to have some real fun for a change. With Mister Masrani footing what would have been a substantial bill, how could Joseph have refused? It seemed like it was good for Ben, like having family close by ...
Swearing, Joseph hit and kicked and thrashed about in his car. He couldn't forgive himself, he couldn't let it go, not any of it and now Ben was gone!
It was his fault.
He should have fought for his summer, should have said no to sending his son away, halfway across the globe, in the care of strangers, strangers who could have done God knows what. But he didn't, Joseph was learning to trust again, he had let him go, and put him in danger all over again. He threw the car into reverse, and peeled out of the cramped parking lot.
That was what he had been afraid of, the strangers, the people, if someone could do that to their own flesh and blood –
That was what had worried Joseph, but that wasn't what had happened. Dinosaurs, it was an island of dinosaurs, that's what all the allure was, that's what made it a perfect place for kids to be kids, that's what was supposed to make it such a fun, once-in-a-lifetime experience. But it was the dinosaurs that had turned what was supposed to be a dream into a nightmare.
The wind whipped through Joseph's hair, drying his tears into salty tracks across face as he put the pedal to the metal and tore down the road, weaving around any cars, or more alarming pedestrians, in his way. He wasn't afraid of crashing, or even excited by the thrill of danger as the world rushed past him in a blur. His heart wasn't racing even as he stuck his head out the window in an attempt to finally get a breath of air. No, his heart wasn't racing, it was bleeding, and he knew if he crashed and died now it wouldn't make a difference.
He didn't matter, he wasn't important, only Ben mattered, he was just the man who had failed him.
"Mmm yeah, it's pretty cool here I guess, and yeah I've got a couple friends by now. Everyone's nice, even the snow queen is starting to melt," Ben had said during their last conversation. "Sammy and I are going to try to be old-school style pen pals when we get home, no emails, just paper." He'd laughed. "It sounds silly, but fun at the same time. Oh, tomorrow we're going to drive gyrospheres, I'm not supposed to tell anyone though, Roxie pulled me aside to make sure I'd feel comfortable with it. I guess mom called and talked to her about some ... stuff. I like Roxie, she's nice."
There had been silence then, a long lull in the conversation. Joseph remembered wondering if Ben was tired, or if there was something he was holding back, something bothering him. Ben never told anyone when he was hurting, he never wanted to be a burden, so he always, always kept it to himself. Joseph had wanted to ask if he was alright, wished that he had, so awash now with guilt there was so much more he wished he could have said on that phone call, but he didn't.
"Well, I think I'm going to read a little bit before bed. Goodnight dad, I love you," Ben had said.
"'I love you too,'" Joseph could hear it clearly, his own voice echoing back at him. He wondered, prayed that Ben could hear the meaning behind those words. It wasn't just an automatic response, Joseph meant it each and every time, with each and every fiber of his being. He loved his son so much it hurt.
Fishing the phone from his pocket after a while Joseph called his wife. It rang, and rang, and rang, before finally going to voicemail. He hadn't heard from her in two days.
"It's me. Call me back," he said gruffly, before hanging up. The man thought briefly about tossing the device to the passenger's seat, had even made a motion to do so when he stopped.
Letting out a slow trembling breath from between his lips he dialed for Ben. It went straight to the inbox, like he knew it would. Ben's number rattled off in a robotic voice, Ben never liked the idea of anyone being able to find him, to know his name, or hearing his voice, it was one of his scars. After the beep Joseph wasn't sure what to do as he slowed, and eventually pulled his car to the side of the road.
"Hey kiddo," he said in a sob after a few minutes of listening to open air. "Hey Ben, it's Dad. I just wanted to say, I love you. I love you so much!" he said, beginning to cry. "I love you Ben. That's all, I just love you ... I love you …"
