They came to my door and it was very late. They were knocking. But I had barely fallen asleep. They didn’t know this about me. They didn’t know I was a night owl. I don’t remember asking them to please come inside, but I might have. They flashed their badges in my face. They said:
Do you have a camera?
A camera. A…what?
Now they are flashing their lights outside the house. Through the double pane windows. I bought the house in 1981 for eight thousand dollars. Good house. Never gave me a lick of trouble. Only thing is the four way stop outside that people tend to glide through. I never had an accident myself, but I’ve lived through a few of them.
The Browns, I told them. The Browns. They have a camera.
The Browns live across the street. South side of the street. Kitty katty korner to me.
That’s the Browns…
Now they are writing in their notebooks. Tiny pads of paper made for a Barbie doll-sized human of a being.
We need to check the tapes.
The footage. See if there’s any footage of the footage. The footage we’re looking for.
I just remember, I say. I just remembered. I do have a camera. I do, in fact, have a camera.
They want to know where and I tell them. Or show them.
Now it’s several days later and I’m sitting across a desk.
We want to thank you for your cooperation, Mr. White. Yours is the only home surveillance camera that caught the footage.
The footage of the footage?
Of the killing. The hit and run. Fifteen years old. That poor boy…
I crumple a little in my chair across the desk from the person. It has to be a sign, I think. It has to be a sign. Why me? Why my camera? Why couldn’t it have been the Browns? Now I must live with the memory of this moment forever. It will forever belong to my truth and it’s something I never asked for. It has to be a sign. Why me?
They came to my door and it was very late. They were knocking. But I had barely fallen asleep. They were knocking and knocking. They came to my door and it was very late. I don’t remember asking them inside. They were knocking and at first I didn’t hear them. Knocking and knocking and knocking. And I couldn’t hear them at first. I don’t remember asking them to please come inside, but maybe I did. They were knocking. And it was very late. They were knocking and knocking and knocking. And when I finally heard them in this life, they were gone.
About the Author
Gina Rose is an African American and Chinese American writer in Oakland, California. She attended Barnard College in New York City where she received the Howard M. Teichmann Writing Prize. Her work has been featured in Rigorous and Penultimate Peanut magazines.
This piece was selected during a special “(Re)new” themed call for submissions. The theme was curated by our managing editor, James R. Gapinski. The theme celebrates The Conium Review‘s new website and James’s new title, Fruit Rot, released on July 15th from Etchings Press at the University of Indianapolis.