King Park

King Park is the only playground in the middle of a city wracked with violence. Every kind of child you could imagine finds solidarity and safety when they set foot on that patch of land. 1st graders to seniors in high school; black, brown, pink, or blue; poor, middle class, or well off – it’s where they all come together. Almost every inch of the area had been introduced to bloodshed. The only exception was that one block where the park was located.

Parents never worried when their kid said they were headed there to go skateboarding with friends or to play on the swings. It was on the corner by a school bus stop and not even a mile from the police station. The youth treated it as a utopia. There was some sort of silent agreement to keep the peace in the only radius it seemed to exist.

Until it didn’t.

It was a Friday. Everything was warm. The sky was periwinkle and the sun burned golden. Early risers walked their dogs, and some were bustling to work. A few minutes before seven AM, three friends waited for the bus while roughhousing in the park. At 6:59, the school bus was visible in the horizon. At 6:59, a round of gunshots fired off.

People began to pour out of their homes to watch from their front yards as the police cars arrived, sirens blaring. The yellow tape was set up methodically; routinely. It happened so often. But never here.

“Whose kid got shot?” Was the first question asked.

Peter Belinski loved to learn new things. Others made fun of him for actually enjoying school. His parents wanted him to be the first one in their family to get a college degree. He would always play Candy Land with his 5-year-old little sister, Brooke, who was half his age. After homework, Peter would spend hours in their yard with his best friend; Oscar, the German Shepard. He was good with animals. He wanted to be a vet.

The gossip spread faster than the blood spill.

“Where’d it hit him?”

In his head. Now Peter was dead and his mother, Abigail, was doing chest compressions, CPR, everything she could think of to save him. She was a nurse. They lived just across the street. As soon as she heard the gunshot, she bolted outside. She knew there was no bringing someone back from a head wound that severe, but this was her baby. She had to try. Onlookers stared as police hoisted Abigail up by the arms to drag her away from her son's body, kicking and screaming. She just wouldn’t stop trying.

“Who could’ve fired it?” Neighbors whispered, but that remained unanswered at the active crime scene.

Kaden Solomon was sitting on the floor, his back against the bed in a dark hotel room by the highway. He had a gun in his lap. The TV was on, but the volume was off. He was watching the news. They were displaying his Facebook profile pictures. That was his car model, his license plate number on the screen - and those were definitely sirens he heard outside.

“Fuck this, Gramps,” Nate Carter, 18 – Kaden’s friend, the driver – said as he stood from the bed. He was frantic; brown eyes bugging, forehead wet with sweat.

“You wanna wait around for them to get your ass? I’m out.” And he was. The door slammed shut behind him.

At least twenty cop cars surrounded the place. They apprehended Nate when he swung down from the back fire escape. Kaden could hear him yelling through the cracked window as police threw him into the back of a vehicle in handcuffs. Kaden didn’t want to be next.

None of it was supposed to happen this way - there was no reason it did. The target had been right there, barely two feet away from the car as they drove by him on the sidewalk. Nate rolled the window down. Kaden maybe blinked once before he pulled the trigger. No hesitation. But when he opened his eyes, the man had bent over to tie his shoe. Children were playing in the park on that side of the street. A little boy ran behind the target at that moment. Nate sped away. Kaden cried in the passenger seat.

Kaden was crying again, hands over his ears to ignore the pounding on the hotel room door.

“Kaden! Kaden, are you okay?” A voice rang out from the other side. Kaden couldn’t press on his eardrums hard enough to block out the sound.

“My name is August Glenn. I’m with the LAPD. I want to get you out of there safely, bud.”

Kaden dropped his arms and gripped the gun. It had never felt so heavy before. It was the safest thing he had ever known; the most reliable. Safety meant nothing to him anymore. He cradled it like a baby.

“We got your uncle here, Kaden. He’s really worried. Would you like to talk to him?” The man went on.

“Kaden! Boy, listen to me!” It truly was his uncle; Terry. The man tried to save Kaden after his father had died; gave him a curfew, observed him when he did his homework to make sure he completed it. Kaden wanted jack shit to do with any of it. He preferred the freedom his friends provided him with when they were together on the streets.

And this is where it landed him. He was going to hell. Kaden opened his mouth in a silent scream. Did the lord hear his guilt?

“This is nowhere near the end! You hear me? There is always a chance to rectify what you’ve taken,” Terry pleaded, collapsed in the hallway. He pressed his palms flat to the door, wanting to reach through and hug his nephew. The dozen police officers lined up against the wall observed the elderly man solemnly.

“You can make peace with this world, Kay. Please. He loves you. And I love you too.”

Kaden looked up towards the ceiling. The sun was just now setting. The room lit up bright orange. Everything was given a halo. Was God watching? Could he see Kaden’s tears? He pushed himself off of the floor and swung his arm into the air, presenting the gun to heaven. He was bawling.


“Kaden! You know the answer to that, son!” Terry shouted back. Kaden was no longer listening to those outside the room. It was not a question for his uncle.

This was between him and the big guy.

“Can I ever be forgiven?” Kaden asked, spinning in a circle, spreading his arms out. He was breathing erratically. His gray eyes danced over the room, from corner to corner, wanting to touch every bump on the walls with his fingers to find a sign.

Would God answer him?

“It was an accident!” He shrieked at the top of his lungs. If his voice reached the sky, surely God would be able to hear him.

But there were no signs to be found.

“I swear it wasn’t meant for him.” Kaden whispered into the silence. God still had nothing to say. The kid was still dead.

And Kaden still had his gun.

“If I turn this on me, could I even it out?” He asked nobody but himself. The sound of movement in the hallway served as the only reply before the door was broken down with an abrasive thud. SWAT swept into the room.

The sunset turned blue, then black, replaced by the night sky. A gunshot rang out.

God had left the hotel.