Page 79

10:16 p.m.

Alano and I get into bed together.

My room is dark except for the glow of my TV, and it’s hard enough trying to watch this documentary already without a beautiful

boy in my bed. All I can think about is how Alano and I are freshly showered and now wearing each other’s clothes: me in his

hoodie, him in my everything else. The air conditioner is blasting cold air because Alano loves the cold, which kills my dreams

of him ever moving to LA since he loves winter in New York, but it’s a good excuse for us to be pressed against each other

for warmth, even with the weighted blanket sitting heavy on our legs.

This might be my only night to be this close to Alano, to share a bed, to be alone with him, but attacking my traumas can

make me healthier so we can try building a legit future together.

I grab my remote and scroll through Piction+ and find the finale for Grim Missed Calls . The thumbnail is my old headshot in black and white, dotted with drops of blood. This episode is off to a bad start before

I can even start it. Maybe I shouldn’t. This is supposed to be therapeutic, not traumatic.

Alano reads my mind. “We don’t have to watch if it’s too much.”

Then he grabs my hand, and it gives me strength.

Mom never wanted this show made because it would reopen closed wounds, but those wounds never closed. Maybe now they can.

I press Play .

“The Last Missed Call” has a run time of one hour and nineteen minutes. The episode opens with pictures from the crime scene:

the gun, the blood, the corpse. I’m already nauseous and shaking so hard that Alano wraps his arm around my shoulders, holding

me close.

The trial began in late June. It’s so weird seeing this courtroom footage, knowing that this was my real history that became

news and entertainment for millions, only for them to watch something else when it was done as if my life was just something

on their to-watch queue.

The courtroom was packed all five days of my trial with so many reporters and cameras that I was nervous even though I had

truth on my side. In the prosecutor’s opening statement, he argued that I would be a threat to society if I wasn’t sent to

a detention center to receive the necessary rehabilitation for the violent impulses that led to me killing Dad and attacking

classmates. Ms. Cielo countered that both incidents were defensive acts and that my school records and character witnesses

would support that I was a good kid who found myself in a devastating position on the evening of July 31, 2010.

I spent my tenth birthday in court, being questioned by the prosecutor.

Sullivan Murphy was old even back then, and my routine Google check-ins show me that he’s still alive and kicking, and unsurprisingly, he represents a lot of pro-naturalists. In retrospect, it makes so much sense why he was showing no mercy toward a young birthday boy because this case was gonna determine Death-Cast’s legitimacy.

As they begin replaying the questioning, Alano holds me closer, better than any weighted blanket.

“Is it correct that you shot your father to save your mother’s life?” Sullivan Murphy asks.

“Yes, sir,” Kid says. Manners won’t get him anywhere.

“But you knew Death-Cast hadn’t called your mother, yes?”

“Yes, but Death-Cast made mistakes that day.”

“Were you aware of those mistakes when you shot your father?”

I was prepped for that question, but I still remember feeling hot. “I didn’t know Death-Cast made mistakes when I did, but

it was the very first day. Anything felt p-p-possible,” Kid stutters.

“We know Death-Cast neglected to warn Mr. Dario of his death. Did you warn your father at all before firing the gun?”

Even though I personally know the court will rule in my favor, I still tear up as I watch my ten-year-old self squirming in

the witness stand. That tight brown suit I had long outgrown felt like it was shrinking more and more with every second, as

I am now against Alano’s body.

“No,” Kid manages to squeak out. “I didn’t warn him.”

The prosecutor paces back and forth with his hands in his pockets, like this whole trial is a walk in the park. “You shot Mr. Dario twice. Walk us through those shootings. Where did you shoot him? How much time between the first and the second shots?”

The camera zooms in on Kid as tears slide down his sweaty face. They show Kid staring into the crowd, but never pan

around to Mom, who was crying too, like I was about to lose. I guess that would’ve humanized the father-killer who was clearly

close to his mom.

“I shot Dad in his side,” Kid says.

“Is that where you were aiming?” Sullivan Murphy asks.

“Not really. I was just shooting him so he would stop beating up Mom.”

“So that first bullet struck Mr. Dario in his side—his left kidney, to be exact—and then what?”

I was so hot on that stand, but I began shivering as I relived that fatal moment; I’m still carrying that trauma in my body

a decade later.

“Then I stood over Dad, and I shot him again.”

“Where did you shoot him the second time?”

“His chest.”

“Is that where you were aiming?”

“Yes,” Kid says.

I remember thinking that answering the question honestly was gonna be like landing on the Go to Jail spot in Monopoly and how scared I was because I didn’t have any Get Out of Jail Free cards, and this wasn’t a game. And I was so scared of getting locked up that I shouted, “I was scared that Dad would hurt me too if he got back up!”

Sullivan Murphy was quick. “Had your father ever harmed you before?”

“N-no, but—”

“No further questions, Your Honor,” the prosecutor says, silencing me.

That was my worst birthday for years before last month when I failed to kill myself.

Here’s where the documentary gets extra tricky. It’s one thing to leave out details about relocating homes and getting bullied,

but another to omit a lot of Ms. Cielo making her case for the defense. There’s nothing about my dad taking his rage out on

my mom for as long as I could remember or how that night was the first time my mom cried out for help, so I helped, or how

I wasn’t thinking about whether or not my dad was gonna die and only if Mom was gonna live or even how after all the ways

my dad terrorized my mom I still somehow missed him—miss him. It’s great that the jury got to hear all that, but it doesn’t

help me exist in a world where millions and millions of viewers don’t know my side of the story.

Where no one knows the truth.

What they do show is Mom getting called to the stand. She explains how this wasn’t premeditated and how her decision to leave Dad was simply inspired by the first End Day, which had the entire world asking themselves who they wanted to be and what lives they will have wanted to live before they die. For Mom, that was a life of love and safety for us, but Sullivan Murphy questions her integrity because she registered Dad for Death-Cast’s services behind his back, suggesting that she wanted proof that he was gonna die before coordinating an attack on him. Ms. Cielo objects because that was speculative—and a total lie—but that doesn’t stop Sullivan from accusing Rolando of having insider information from his shift at Death-Cast that very same day I killed Dad, opening the doors for Rolando to finally be with the love of his life.

“I can’t believe we won this case with all this lying,” I tell Alano.

“You won because you told the truth,” Alano says, his arms wrapped around me.

Instead of showing the character testimonies, the documentary cuts to their recent interview with Sullivan Murphy, whose dark

hair has grayed and wrinkles have deepened: “They brought in all those celebrities,” he says with disdain. “The author of

those children’s books, the Hollywood stars. The jury ate all that up. The character witness that still frustrates me to this

day is Orion Pagan.”

They cut to a clip where Orion Pagan is on the stand, being questioned about my dad. Orion holds his hand to his heart and

says, “That monster killed Valentino.”

It cuts back to Sullivan Murphy, who is shaking his head. “It was the Decker who tried killing Frankie Dario, but apparently self-defense only matters when it’s against someone who doesn’t believe in Death-Cast. Not to mention, we will never know if Valentino Prince would’ve naturally recovered from his brain injury if Orion Pagan hadn’t undergone that heart surgery for his own physical benefit. Financial benefit, I should add, since he’s exploited that sham of a love story into a bestseller.”

This disrespect against Valentino only makes me more infuriated that Orion let this damaging, nonsense narrative block my

future.

The documentary shows the final people who were called to testify: executives from Death-Cast, including Alano’s parents,

who spoke about the Death’s Dozen. I’m not sure how much Joaquin Rosa gave a shit about what happened to me as he was protecting

his company’s reputation, given how much time he speaks about Death-Cast’s perfect record ever since the first End Day. They

cut to Naya Rosa with her arm wrapped around Kid Alano.

“There you go,” I say.

“There I go,” Alano says.

Even before we really knew each other, Alano was on my side. Now he’s holding me as I relive this nightmare. The episode is

almost over, but I hope I get to stay in Alano’s arms longer.

Once the closing statements are done, there’s an intense, escalating score that gets my heart racing, especially when the

cameras cut to Mom and Kid hugging so hard; I remember fearing it might be the last time I ever got to hug her. Then the

music fades and there’s a heart-in-your-throat silence before we hear the magic words: “Not guilty.”

Just like Kid , I full-on sob, relieved that the docuseries didn’t rewrite history here, but knowing that my life played out in a way as if it had.

I was naive—no, I was fucking stupid—to think people would let a ten-year-old move on with his life after the jury recognized

the incident as a justifiable homicide. All that happened was things got so bad that I’ve never been able to move on, that

I’ve never been able to close this wound, especially because of this goddamn docuseries that caused so much harm that I started

hurting myself.

The worst part is how my almost punching Alano only makes Grim Missed Calls ’ character assassination look legitimate.

I stare at my nightstand, wishing my knife was inside.

“It’s not fair; it’s not fair,” I cry over and over, like I’m Kid . “I’m never gonna be able to live my life.” I try wrestling

out of Alano’s arms, no longer wanting to be held, I just wanna go into the kitchen and grab my knife and cut, cut, cut, just

cut out anything that makes me feel.

Alano strengthens his hold. “I’m sorry for this nightmare you’ve had to live through because of Death-Cast,” Alano says through

sobs. “You deserved a better life without that trial or having to kill your father. He put you in that devastating position.

Not your mother, not Rolando, no one but your father, no matter what this sad excuse of a show says. You were right to save

your mother’s life, and I’m sorry it cost you yours. You deserve peace, .”

I’m never gonna have peace, not with this borderline brain. Not in this life. The Death-Cast calls are beginning soon, maybe I’ll get one, ahead of the tenth anniversary of killing Dad, so I can be spared further pain as the waves of harassment and hate will only keep growing.

I cry about wanting to die, about wanting to be reincarnated as my mom’s new baby, and about wanting the fresh start that

winning my trial promised.

I wanna self-harm so bad, I don’t even care how. Cutting. Burning. Smashing Orion’s big-ass book into my head over and over.

Anything can be a weapon, which is frightening. “I’m so scared of myself,” I cry out, hating my brain for making me my own

greatest enemy.

“You don’t have to be,” Alano says, locking his arms around me.

I’m a sword, and he’s my shield, protecting me from myself.