I stand there, mouth open, bewildered. The reporter’s words are a rusty knife under my belly slicing me open. My guts are out to the world. There’s nothing left on the inside.

No, I’m wrong. There is something left . . . rage.

I run to the closet to get the bat and smash the hell out of the TV. I march up to the glass coffee table and bring the weapon down with all my might. The flying glass and broken pieces are nothing more than confetti. It’s only right; after all, it’s a party! We are here to celebrate my friend rage—it’s her coming-out party.

I get a running start and take the bat to the hallway mirror. It shatters in multiple glorious pieces! We can’t stop now. The frenzy inside me demands more and more carnage. I latch onto the bat with both hands and aim for the shelf full of awards given to See Us over the years—yeah, they have to break too. I bring the bat up over my head once again and bring it down on the glass shelves. It rains glass confetti; so pretty!

The window calls out to me. It too wants to be part of the party. I close my eyes, lean on my back leg, and swing—but it doesn’t land. I open my eyes. Uncle Ty is holding the other end of the bat. He’s stopping me midparty.

I look in his eyes. They’re flooded with tears. And now mine are too. The air is gone from my lungs. I crumple to my knees. A guttural cry escapes from my throat and tries to give voice to my pain. But it can’t, because pain like this shouldn’t exist. I weep openly on the floor as my uncle holds me. He can’t save me from this, and I can’t save him. So, we drown together . . .

Within the hour, groups of protesters from See Us and other organizations take to the streets, heading directly for the police station. The media follows the crowd and tries to get them to talk about what they feel. One Black lady turns to the cameraman and lets out a cry that is part rage and part sadness. The man is so taken aback that he almost drops the camera.

Leaders from the Black community march out in front of the pack and give interviews demanding justice. There are reporters outside our house, as well as crowds of protesters shouting their support. The news is filled with reaction footage throughout New York City. The crowd keeps growing, and police presence—per the mayor’s request—has been heightened.