Primer

For days after witnessing my first murder, I could remember details. I remembered clothing, hairstyles, the sound of voice of the devil walking around the block with his gun in hand. I remembered grandma leaning in close and telling me "I don't care if you were up that night. I don't care you were at the window. You saw nothing. Nothing." She knew (and I would soon learn) seeing meant questions. Seeing meant people knocking on your door. Seeing meant people reminding you you have a baby brother and it would be a real shame for that cute baby to get hurt, wouldn't it? So that's how details got turned into nothing.

In the years that have come and gone the colours are muted, the mouths are moving but silent until I hear the solitary boom of a gunshot. I still dream of the blood that ran down the street until morning, until the body was wrapped and taken away, until the restaurant's owner began hosing down the blood so it ran into the gutter.

The first time you never think you'll get over the sight. Then you see more and more. Then eventually "I didn't see nothing" rolls off your tongue easier than your name.