Ten Second Death (A Breonna Taylor Story)

They say...when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. I think that life should flash before your eyes while you’re still living, so you can always treasure the good times. But as five loud bangs shatter my eardrums, and find their way into my body, I finally understand that saying. Memories I didn’t know I had fly to the forefront of my mind. 

I see myself as a baby, a handheld camera in my face as I utter my first words. Tears of joy slide down my mom’s face as she strokes my cheek tenderly. I didn’t know exactly how warm and precious her hands were then. But I do now. 

I see myself as a toddler on Christmas morning, my dad holding the back seat of my new bike. At seven, the training wheels came off, and I hear my younger self wail in pain as my bare knees meet the concrete. My dad scoops me up and seals my band-aid with a kiss. I didn’t know how much of a superhero he was. But I do now. 

I see myself at eleven, starting middle school. The typical bullies who liked to push the underdog, kids like me, off of the playground. I hear my fierce thoughts, “I’m gonna show them one day.” And I would. I did. But instead of showing them that one day I would take the stage, I showed them the ugly side of my world. The unfair, unjust, biased, side of my world. The side everyone wants to keep hidden. Yet no one has the courage to erase or fix. I didn’t have the courage to fix it myself. I didn’t know if I could. How I could. I saw the protests. I saw the social media advocates. But I also saw the countless faces that looked like me. Like my family. And they all blurred together. I became desensitized and turned a cheek whenever an injustice hit my community. I didn’t see how real the problem was. But I do now. 

I feel my mother stroking my hair at fourteen, as I cry into a pillow. Thinking that one boy not taking me to the dance was the end of the world. I thought I knew pain then, turns out I didn’t. But I do now.

I see myself at seventeen, walking across the stage, becoming the first in my family to graduate high school. Throwing my cap up into the air, watching it glide in the wind and fall back down into my arms. My heart filled with happiness as my mother hugged me, tears of joy streaming down her face. Then I didn’t realize how much I loved her hugs, how much they meant to me. But I do now. 

I see myself a year later, at eighteen, ripping open the acceptance letter from the University of Kentucky. More tears of joy from the various faces around the room. Faces I’ll never see again. I didn’t realize how much I loved being surrounded by my family. How truly amazing it felt to have people in your corner, supporting you no matter what the world threw at you. But I do now.

I see myself at twenty-five, happy with my life saving others. Giving hope to people who had lost it all. Returning people to their homes. Mending wounds. Putting families back together. Some people don’t see the power being an EMT. I didn’t either. But I do now.

I see myself now. Slowly losing feeling in my body, as those five loud sounds crawl their way further into my abdomen. I see myself now as chaos swarms around the room I slept in countless nights. I see myself now as a voice, that was once soothing, rasps in my ear, telling me everything will be okay. I see myself now, knowing that everything won’t be okay. I see myself now, closing my eyes for the last time and I think of the future I could’ve had.

I think about what would’ve happened if I wasn’t the girl facing her death, if it was another young black woman unjustly shot to death. How different that would be. Death is such a permanent state and in a way, it seems like a myth. No one can ever recount death, so you when your time comes, on time or earlier, you never know what to expect. 

 My mind wanders forward, into the future, all aspects of it that I’ll never get to experience. I remember Kenneth, because all he is is a memory now. I wonder if we would’ve gotten married. Or if he would’ve moved on from me to someone else, like he inevitably will now. Just because the world stopped moving for me, doesn’t mean it will stop moving for him. Or anyone else. I want him to move on to live a good life, a full life. To live for the both of us. In a perfect universe, he’d be able to live in a fair world. But we all know that’s not possible. 

I think about the long african print dress would’ve trailed behind me, if we would’ve had the chance to stay together. But now that dress will belong to someone else. I think about the house we could’ve bought together. But now that house will belong to someone else. I think about the kids we could’ve had. The changes they would’ve made in the world. The movements they would’ve started. The dreams they would’ve achieved. But now those beings will never have the chance. The possibilities are both endless and limited at the same time. The world is full of opportunities that I won’t be able to experience. But thinking negatively doesn’t change death. It’ll come soon enough for all of us.

I think back to those girls who bullied me in middle school. I wanted to change the world. To show them that I would rise up above their shallow personas. Above the masks that they wore. And I think I’ve done that. I’ve shown them that they did not break me. I’ve shown them that death changes people. Changes communities. And starts movements. I’ve shown them that I have, that I can, and that I will rise.