An Unspoken Name

They told us not to speak his name-so I wrote it. My fingers trembled as I gripped my pencil and covered the paper with letters. F-E-L-I-X. His name stared at me, a clear reminder of what was gone forever. His name taunted me. Every time I looked at it, I could almost hear his voice saying “it’s your fault.” Tears blurred my vision as I wrote his name again. Writing his name was the only way I could remember him, since my parents had forbidden my younger sister Hazel and me to say his name. His name is all that’s left of him now. I continued to fill the page with his name, over and over again. Felix, Felix, Felix. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Memories of him constantly flooded my mind. The last time I had seen him was on that fateful day. I was in my English class when I saw him walk past the door. He stopped and waved at me, flashing his signature grin. I smiled and waved back.

“Hi,” he whispered. That was the last word he spoke to me. Not even an hour later, he was dead. The rest of the day was a blur. I only remember the sounds. We all heard the loud gunshots and voices yelling in agony. The screams were blood-curdling and piercing. Chaos erupted in my classroom. Students were wailing and the teacher was panicking. We huddled together in a corner, petrified. I silently prayed that the gunshots wouldn’t reach our classroom. Fortunately, they didn’t. They stopped just as soon as they started. Sirens blared outside and footsteps approached our classroom. A tall police officer entered.

“I’m Officer Scott Stauder. We have arrested the shooter. His name is Ahab Snyder. Sadly, he has killed three students. I am so sorry for this horrible tragedy. My condolences.” He turned around to leave but stopped. “I almost forgot, is Jake Conway or Harper Bennett in this classroom?”

“I’m Harper,” I stammered nervously, wondering what he wanted.

“I need to speak with you privately.” He said solemnly. I stood up, legs shaking and heart pounding, and slowly walked to the door.

“You may want to sit down for this,” Officer Scott warned. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” I took a deep breath and waited in anticipation. “Your twin brother Felix was killed. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I gasped. The news hit me like a slap in the face. I was completely and utterly speechless. I couldn’t breathe. I felt suffocated, like all the air in my lungs was squeezed out. When I finally found my voice again, I asked, “are you sure? Maybe you have the wrong person.”

He shook his head sadly. “We’re certain it’s him. We found his body on the floor, and a teacher identified him as Felix Bennett.”

“Why did it have to be him? Why not me instead?” I asked, my voice cracking. Officer Scott patted my back comfortingly. “This is all my fault!” I sobbed uncontrollably. “I’m the one to blame.”

“It’s not your fault at all. There was nothing you could have done to prevent the shooter from committing this heinous act.”

“You don’t understand! I helped him. This morning, when I was walking to school, a man with blonde hair and a baseball hat bumped into me. He introduced himself as Ahab and asked how to get to Forest Hills Middle School. I didn’t think he would end up shooting the school; I just thought he was someone’s parent. So I gave him directions,” I admitted and broke down crying.

The officer looked surprised at my confession.

“This is new information. We’ll look into that when we interrogate Ahab. But still, you’re not responsible for this.”

“It feels like I am though,” I choked out, wiping tears from my face.

“I’m deeply sorry,” Officer Scott said sympathetically. “I can’t imagine the pain you must be going through. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.” I nodded and turned around to march back into my classroom. On that day, I had broken into a million pieces, incapable of being glued back together. A part of me had died with Felix, and I would never be able to get it back. The past year was a blur of depression and sheets of paper. I started the habit of writing his name the day after his death. My parents were so grief-stricken that they threw out all remaining traces of him. His clothes, belongings, pictures of him, anything that reminded them of him. They refused to acknowledge his existence; it was too painful for them. It was extremely painful for me to write his name, but I continued doing it every day, in honor of him. Now, I stared at the paper in front of me.

Hesitantly, I whispered, “Felix.”

I closed my eyes and pictured him in front of me saying, “I love you.”

My eyelids opened and there was nothing but air. The silence was overbearing.

“Felix,” I repeated, louder this time. My door flew open, almost coming off the hinges.

“What did you say?” My mom demanded.

“Just his name.”

“You know we do not say it, ever,” she said sternly.

“But I needed to, so I can remember him.”

“Just forget him,” she said tearfully.

“But I want to be reminded of who he was.”

“No!” she yelled. “You need to move on.”

“Move on?” I asked incredulously. “How can I possibly do that? He never lived to see his 14th birthday. So I’m going to live enough life for both of us. If that means telling his story to everyone, then so be it. If that means yelling his name on the rooftop, I’ll do it right now. But his legacy will not be erased. He will not be forgotten. His name will no longer be unspoken.”

Bio: Olivia Im is a senior in a high school with a passion for literature. She has always loved reading, writing, and everything related to books. She is an aspiring elementary school teacher/author. Besides writing, in her free time she enjoys playing the violin, singing, and recording episodes for her podcast called The Book Nook.