It had been two days since the funeral. I had just finished arranging my brother's belongings-the things he would leave at my apartment whenever he came over. The process was bittersweet, each item a fragment of a life cut tragically short. I sealed the boxes carefully, as if preserving a piece of him, and closed the door to the room he used to stay in. The click of the latch felt final, like shutting away a chapter of my life that I wasn't ready to let go of. I lingered for a moment, my hand resting on the doorframe, before turning and heading to my room.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I noticed a picture on my bedside table. It was Jason and me at an amusement park. I was about six years old, my grin wide and carefree, while Jason, at thirteen, had his arm slung protectively around my shoulders. That photo was taken just three weeks after our parents' car accident. Even then, Jason had stepped into the role of caretaker, shielding me from the weight of our loss. He had always been there, filling the void left by our parents. A wave of sorrow crashed over me, and I clutched the frame tightly, as if holding onto it could bring him back.
A sudden phone call pulled me out of my memories. I picked up the phone, my voice barely above a whisper. "Hello?"
"Hey, it's Rwaki," came the familiar voice on the other end. "Listen... don't pay attention to the news or what people are saying online. Those people don't know you like we do."
I frowned, confusion knitting my brows together. "What are you talking about?"
"You haven't seen it yet?" Rwaki hesitated, her tone cautious. "The clip from the funeral interview... it's all over the local news. It's spreading on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube-everywhere. The comments... they're from ignorant people who don't know the full story. Don't watch any of it, okay?"
"Thanks for telling me," I murmured, though my mind was already racing.
"Seriously, don't take their words to heart," Rwaki insisted before we ended the call.
I immediately opened my laptop, my fingers trembling as I typed in the search terms. It didn't take long to find what Rwaki was talking about. The local news channel had posted the interview, and it had gone viral. My stomach churned as I scrolled through the comments on Instagram and YouTube. The sheer volume of opinions-each one more callous than the last-felt like a tidal wave crashing over me.
On Instagram, a user named @TruthSeeker99 had commented: "Your brother stopped in the middle of a criminal car chase? What did he expect? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes." Another, @JustBeingHonest, wrote: "She got compensated, right? $45,000 is a lot of money. Why is she still complaining? Sounds like she just wants attention."
YouTube was no better. A video titled "The Truth Behind Jason's Death" had thousands of views, with comments like: "The police wouldn't just shoot someone for no reason. He must've done something shady." Another user, @JusticeForAll, added: "If she really cared about her brother, she wouldn't have taken the money. This whole thing reeks of greed." "Here we again, victim mentality," another user commented.
I slammed my laptop shut, my head pounding. The cruelty of strangers was staggering. How could they reduce Jason's life to a dollar amount or a soundbite? I reached for the bottle of headache relief tablets on my nightstand, swallowing two with a gulp of water. My hands shook as I dialed Howard, the reporter who had conducted the interview.
When she answered, her voice was apologetic. "I'm sorry, but my superiors have ordered me not to pursue this story any further. They want it to fade away."
"But what about my brother?" I demanded, my voice breaking. "Does his life mean nothing? Or is it just worth $45,000 to you people?"
Howard sighed. "I'm really sorry. There's nothing more I can do."
I ended the call, feeling more helpless than ever. The next day, I met with a lawyer, Mr. Clifold, hoping for some semblance of justice. He listened patiently as I explained everything, his expression growing graver by the minute.
"I'll be honest with you," he said finally. "Even if you press charges, the most you'll get is compensation. The police have solid evidence, and the officers who were present have corroborated the official story. The officer who shot Jason won't be charged with murder."
"But I didn't consent to signing those documents," I protested. "I didn't even realize what I was agreeing to."
"You can file a case," Mr. Clifold said gently. "Mistakes in signing legal documents are recognized under the law. But it's a long shot, and it will be emotionally draining. Do you want me to proceed?"
I shook my head, defeated. "No. It's not worth it."
After paying him for his time, I returned to my apartment, feeling hollow. I tied my braids into a bun, pulled on my bonnet, and ran a bath, hoping the warm water would soothe my frayed nerves. But exhaustion overtook me, and I fell asleep in the tub. I dreamed of Jason-his bright smile as he played basketball, the way he called my name with that familiar teasing lilt. When I woke, the water was cold, and I was shivering. I dried off quickly, pulling on my pajamas and climbing into bed.
Sleep eluded me, so I picked up my phone and opened Jason's TikTok account. His videos were a time capsule of happier days-goofy dances, heartfelt messages, and clips of us together. His followers had flooded the comments with condolences, and unlike the vitriol on Instagram and YouTube, the tone here was overwhelmingly supportive.
"Jason was such a light in this world," wrote @SunshineAndSmiles.
"I can't believe he's gone. Sending so much love to his family." Another user, @JusticeForJason, commented: "Something doesn't add up about the police story. We need answers for Jason." A third, @ForeverInOurHearts, posted: "The way he talked about his sister in his videos... you can tell how much he loved her. My heart breaks for her."
It was a stark contrast to the cruelty I'd seen elsewhere. For a moment, I felt a flicker of hope-maybe there were people out there who saw Jason for who he truly was. But it wasn't enough. I logged off, sighing heavily, and picked up the photo of Jason and me again.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, tears streaming down my face. "I'm so useless. I can't even fight for you."
The weight of my helplessness pressed down on me, a crushing reminder of how little control I had over the narrative of my brother's life-and death.
12Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOoAhDIRB0U
