Asking Whistler

JAMAAL WOULDN’T HAVE felt the bullet enter his head. It was too late by that point. Though, he did feel the intake of air just before the trigger was pulled. He felt that moment of panic. Like he couldn’t figure out what was happening. Or why.

Instead what he felt was his soul being ripped from the tight comfort of his body. He felt the brisk night air of Nashville, Tennessee whip through him like he was part of it. He was part of it. As the seconds ticked by he noticed his body becoming further and further from his touch. He reached out his hand only to notice it wasn’t there. It was but a tuft of air in the loose shape of a few fingers.

Time stopped mattering for Jamaal at the point of impact. The moment the bullet entered his skull and rattled each and every part of his brain—he ceased to exist. At least in the traditional sense. His life had been one of meaning. Two little brothers and a wonderful mother left behind. How would they know he was dead?

Was he dead?

He couldn’t decide. It looked as though he were dead. His body lie on the corner of 54th and Selia. Motionless. His lips beginning to turn blue. His basketball rolling slowly down the street into oncoming traffic. The ball may be the only reason anyone stops to check on him. A body lying against a wall at the corner of 54th and Selia wasn’t strange. A basketball rolling into traffic, that was strange.

Jamaal looked around but couldn’t see the car from which the bullet originated. He’d heard them squeal around the corner. The sound was just before the quick rush of panic. A car squealing around a corner only meant a couple of things in his neighborhood. Jamaal’s body had so much potential.

Now all he could do was float around. Maybe, someone, would one day see him. Maybe someone could help him figure out who pulled the trigger that launched the bullet that ended his life. It wasn’t fair. He’d done nothing to deserve such a fate.