The Last Time I Died by Joe Nelms

steps on the front of our building. The stoop where I would wait for my father to come home from work. The stoop where I played long-lost imaginary games with the neighbor kids while my bored mother watched and smoked. That awful, crumbling stoop that I stared at to avoid the eyes of my neighbors when the cops dragged my father out of our building.
    And there it was. Passing by unaware of its significance to me. I must have it. Maybe I can’t have all of them, but I want this one.
    I focus my mind or whatever I have become on that one memory and manage to slow the streak of images down enough to watch this selected scene like a forgotten home movie unearthed at a relative’s garage sale. I will it closer and demand it to keep playing. It moves toward me and through me and around me and then I’m in it.
    Brooklyn.
    Nineteen eighty-four-ish.
    I was eight.
    I am eight.
    I’m there and I’m eight. Cop cars line the street in front of my building. Red and blue lights flashing. Some cops taking statements from the people who live next door. The neighbor who was always bitching at her husband talks to a uniformed policeman. She was a nosy one and has plenty to say. I’m sure it’s all wrong and she’s making most of it up but who would believe me if I opened my mouth? I can’t hear her anyway. The rest of the neighbors mill around trying to figure out what’s going on. They’re right next to me but they feel like they’re a million miles away.
    I am the only person on earth who feels the way I do. I am an exhibit. This is a zoo and I am the only animal.
    A fat cop wraps a blanket around me and tells me they’re going to take care of me. I understand that I look like I just saw a ghost. I don’t know where my sister is. A female cop is there. She seems disgusted with me. Or maybe she’s worried. I want to ask her where my sister is and what will happen to us and what are they going to do with my father and when will this end but I don’t because I don’t think she’ll answer. I’m convinced I’ll get into trouble or, worse, she’ll look at me with forced empathy and give me some bullshit, hope-filled answer that both of us know is a lie and then I’ll be confused on top of scared.
    So instead I’m silent as the zoo visitors stare at me. None of them take pictures but that’s only because there’s no way they’ll ever forget this scene. The fat cop talks to the female cop like I’m not there. Like you talk to your daughter while you discuss feeding the monkeys even though the sign says in no uncertain terms not to.
    —He’s been through some shit. CPS is on the way.
    —You know his father’s on the job. Out of the sixth.
    —No shit?
    The fat cop looks back at a commotion coming from the house and I know I should keep looking at the bottom stair of the stoop. Instead I raise my eyes to see the front door of my building open and two New York City Coroner’s office employees wheel out a gurney with a full body bag on it. My stomach sucks itself back to my spine but I can’t look away. I watch the gurney all the way to the coroner’s truck as they slam it into the bumper, collapse the legs, and shove it into the truck’s gaping hole like a sofa being moved to a new apartment. This might be the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen and I can’t figure out why I’m not angry. Neighbors react, some in shock, some with self-righteous acknowledgment, whispering their I-told-you-so’s to each other and pointing across the street. I follow their know-it-all fingers to the cruiser I’ve been trying to not look at. Inside, my father sits, handcuffed from behind, tears streaming down his face. His eyes never leave mine.
    I force myself to stare at my father while the gurney is strapped into the coroner’s truck. When I hear them slam the doors shut, I mouth the words ‘Thank you’ to him as he sits there about to be taken away forever.
    Thank you.
    Finally, he cracks, rolling back against the seat, head flopping