When I was twelve years old, I killed someone.
It didn't feel like I thought it would. You see it in films, read it in stories—the drama, the weight of it. But they're all wrong. It wasn't dramatic or meaningful or even real-feeling. It just was.
Mark and I had grown up together, friends since we could walk. We shared everything: the same interests, the same talent for trouble, the same obsession with cops and robbers. We were closer than brothers—we were two halves of the same reckless whole.
Our parents had confiscated our toy guns weeks earlier after one too many elaborate crime scenarios gone wrong, too many welts from pellet guns, too many complaints from neighbors. How can you play cops and robbers with no guns? we'd wondered, but we made do with pointed fingers and shouted "FREEZE!"
I remember it clearly now, every detail sharp as broken glass.
It was summer. Dad was at work, Mom downstairs doing laundry, moving between the kitchen and garage. The house felt empty, full of shadows and possibility. We were playing our usual game when I chased Mark into my parents' bedroom.
I saw him dive behind their massive bed and stopped, giving him time to think he'd escaped. Then I began my search, saving the obvious hiding spot for last. I flung open the wardrobe doors with theatrical flair. "Ah-HA!" Mark's muffled giggle drifted from under the bed. I moved to the bathroom, yanked back the shower curtain. Silence this time.
When I dropped to the floor and stuck my head under the bed, shouting "FREEZE!"—nothing. Mark had vanished.
I found him in my room, eventually. The silence there was different, thick and waiting. My window was closed, the air stuffy. Even Mom's movements downstairs had gone quiet, as if the whole house was holding its breath.
My room was large—the privilege and burden of being an only child. Powder-blue walls, dark wood furniture, toys organized in a hamper-style chest inside my closet. My desk sat by the window, cluttered with model cars and monsters, my opened insulin kit from that morning's injection, thin books and scattered pencils. My bed was a disaster from our earlier wrestling match.
I was sweating, my hands slick. The chase had worn me out more than usual. I opened the window, let the cool breeze wash over my face, then turned back to the game I was already tired of playing.
I checked under the bed first—nothing but dust and Pacer, our tomcat, who shot out and struck my chest before bounding away. My heart hammered against my ribs.
Then I saw it: my toy chest, partially hidden in the closet. The lid shifted almost imperceptibly.
I moved toward it, wiping sweaty palms on my jeans. My heart was still racing from the cat's surprise. Sweat dripped into my eyes, making them sting. Just as I reached the closet, the lid flew open.
Mark erupted from the chest, pointing something at me. "FREEZE!"
The shock sent me stumbling backward to my knees. I looked up at him, pulse pounding in my temples, and felt anger flare. Where would he have gotten a—
Then I saw his grin behind the barrel, and the anger turned to ice-cold fear. This wasn't a toy.
My father had been explicit when he'd brought the gun home over a year ago. He and Mom had sat me down for nearly an hour, burning the rules into my brain: never touch it, never even look at it wrong, it's not a toy, it could kill someone.
"You dumbass!" I whispered, glancing toward the door. "That's my dad's! He'll kill us if he finds out!"
I stood quickly, and the world tilted. Dizziness washed over me like a wave, then receded just as fast. I reached out and grabbed the gun from Mark's hands.
"Hey!" he said, too loud.
"Shhh!" I gripped the handle, turned the barrel away from both of us. "Shut up and come on." I started toward the door, but Mark grabbed my arm.
"Where?"
I turned back, anger making my head throb. The gun was slippery in my sweating palm. "To put this back," I said, gesturing with the weapon.
"Hey! Watch it!" Mark pushed the gun down, away from his face.
I'm still not sure what happened next. I saw Mark's expression change—irritation melting into surprise, his jaw going slack. He fell forward, tumbling out of the toy chest, pushing me backward. He landed on his back at my feet.
That's when I saw the blood.
The world blurred. I started shaking and couldn't stop. I watched Mark lying there on my bedroom floor, bleeding. I watched his eyes focus on something far beyond where I stood. I watched the light fade from behind those eyes. I watched my best friend die.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream for help. I didn't even drop the gun. I just stood there while the world swayed around me, and I watched.
According to my parents, that's when Mom arrived.
She's told me about it over the years—not from anger, but from love, wanting me to understand so I could move past it, so I could someday have sweet dreams again. She tried.
Mom ran upstairs after the gunshot and froze in the doorway. Her son stood there, waving a gun, his best friend in a pool of blood at his feet. She saw immediately that something was wrong—I was drenched in sweat, shaking violently, my face flushed and eyes unfocused.
I pointed the gun at her and screamed, "FREEZE!"
"It's okay, baby," she said, her voice steady despite her terror. "Everything's going to be okay. Just put the gun down and we'll make it all better."
"No!" I pulled the trigger.
The bullet splintered the door jamb above her head. She ducked, nearly fainting. I was swaying like I stood on a ship's deck, the gun wavering in front of me.
"Don't move! You're under arrest!" My vision was tunneling, my face burning with fever-heat.
"It's okay, baby. It's Mommy." She held her arms out to me, shaking now herself—not from fear for her own life, but for mine.
"Hands up! Where I can see them!" I stumbled to the bedpost, gripped it for support. I tried to blink the sweat from my eyes but had to wipe it away with the gun-hand. The weapon discharged again.
Mom rushed toward me. I fell toward my desk, and the gun went off a third time. My hands were suddenly empty. I was draped over my desk chair, staring at my insulin kit lying open, the used needle wrapper beside the bottle.
My tongue felt like sandpaper. I couldn't stop shaking. The world went black.
I was in a coma for almost two weeks. I missed Mark's funeral—probably for the best. I'm not sure how welcome I would have been.
Later, they explained: I'd misjudged my insulin dosage that morning. Too much. The hypoglycemia had caused the confusion, the aggression, the inability to think clearly. Mom hadn't been hurt by the gunfire—a miracle I still can't comprehend.
When they told me what had happened, I cried until I was so weak and dehydrated I passed out again.
In the hospital, just before I fell asleep—really asleep, not unconscious from trauma—Mom sat by my bed and whispered, "Sweet dreams, baby. Sweet dreams."
But I didn't have sweet dreams. I dreamed of a boy who was my friend. I dreamed of his death at my hands. I dreamed of gunfire and tears.
I still do.