My PTSD

It's three o'clock in the morning, and I'm sitting here on the bathroom floor, reliving that day—reliving your death. If only crying could ease the pain... Maybe I would be able to live my life again. Instead, I close my eyes and hear my voice blubbering to 911. Dad is at work, so I know he's safe. I call Jaime, but he hangs up because I can't speak. I'm trying to say that you're dead and that Jacob is shot, but all that comes out are tears and snot. I think about Javier and Mom, who are still outside, still in danger, unsure if they are surviving or joining you. I swear I'm trying to be calm and collected, but I hear each gunshot as if it just happened. I open my eyes and look around. I'm not at Mom and Dad's house; I’m two hours away at my new place, where no one knows our story, where no one knows about that day. I should be happy. I should take each moment and make it great because that's what you would say to do. But instead, I'm here, sitting on the bathroom floor, wishing I could escape.