Panic at the Disco
Arthur didn’t hear the banging on his front door. It was a loud and abrasive banging, like an overprotective father trying to reach a teenage daughter who locked herself in the bathroom, and it didn’t stop until one of the many partygoers who were crowded in his living room decided to take it upon themself to open the door. Arthur was enjoying the vibrations of the music through the soles of his feet, tapping along to the groovy, upbeat bass that he assumed was hip-hop, or maybe a kind of jazz—he didn’t notice the partygoer’s frantic hand motions or the irritation on his face when he was shoved out of the doorway—Arthur was busy signing to the keen boy in blue overalls. His name was Johnny. Arthur didn’t notice something was wrong until the vibrations under his feet had ceased. He didn’t notice until he saw the musicians’ eyes widen like deer in headlights and rush off the stage, leaving behind speakers and drum sets and portable pianos. He didn’t notice until the crowd was pushing and shoving and running for the door, the windows, the staircase upstairs, until the only vibrations he felt came from the stomping of frantic feet on wooden floors. The vibrations rattled through the bones of his legs and nipped at his fingertips. It was a human stampede. The people were shouting something, mouths opening wide, tongues touching wet roofs before gnashing teeth, then left open to catch rapid breaths. Arthur caught an L in the movements of their lips; he couldn’t see the words in the frantic mixture of teeth and tongue. Arthur turned to Johnny. Johnny’s eyes were lost and uneasy, like a wild animal in a cage of foriegn rocks and vegetation, like Arthur’s massive living room wasn’t here two minutes ago.
Police, Johnny signed rapidly. The police are here.
Arthur looked over the moving heads of rushing people and saw groups of black suits and shiny gold badges. Some were by his prized window, the one with the telephone on the sill, and others were on the opposite side of the room heading in the direction of the stage. They were yelling at the dispersing crowd and making arrests at random, pressing the faces of partygoers into Arthur’s white walls and twisting arms behind backs like they were made of rubber. Arthur averted his eyes when he saw their young faces twist in pain. Most of them were black men in urban clothing and dirty socks—older versions of Johnny.
Where are your parents? Arthur signed.
Johnny stared at Arthur for a moment, eyes searching his like he’d find his parents somewhere in the blues of his iris. My dad, he signed, I came with my dad. His eyes left Arthur’s and scoured the scrambling crowd, his head and body twisting and turning, looking everywhere and nowhere. Johnny started to speak as he signed, but his mouth moved too fast for his hands. My dad. I don’t know. He started to cry. I don’t know. His eyes kept looking, jumping from face to face. I don’t know. I can’t find him. He started to visibly panic, breaths coming in quick huffs, hands shaking, I don’t know.
It’s okay, Arthur signed, we’ll find him. Arthur tried to hide the concern on his face, tried to appear calm and collected with hopes that Johnny would follow suit and wipe his tears, but Arthur couldn’t shake the slimy feeling doing backflips in his stomach.
Arthur grabbed hold of Johnny’s hand and tried to give him a reassuring smile. It came out forced. Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Johnny told Arthur his father was a tall, skinny man, with short dreadlocks and a leaf-shaped birthmark on his cheek. He was wearing a heavy brown jacket because he got cold easily, and he was deaf, like Arthur. Arthur and Johnny sifted through clusters of moving bodies running for the front door, tapping every dreadlock and brown-jacketed man they could reach. It was when Arthur turned to grab the shoulder of a man with a tan raincoat, that Johnny twisted out of his hand and ran through the crowd, shouting something Arthur couldn’t hear. Arthur tried to run after him, and he was almost there, so close he could nearly grab the straps of his overalls, until someone crashed into his side and brought him to the floor. Arthur fell on his back, hitting the floor hard, and looked up to find a boy no older than seventeen face-down on the ground beside his feet. An officer was kneeling beside the boy’s body, one hand clutching the boy’s arms behind his back and pinning him down, the other hand reaching for a pair of handcuffs in his belt. The officer was yelling at the boy, face angry and red—Arthur read his lips.
Tell me where they are! Where are the drugs! He spat in the boy’s face while he talked. Arthur couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or not.
We don’t got any!
The officer lifted the boy by the arms and slammed him into the floor, pressing harder than before. I’ll arrest you for underage drinking, boy.
I wasn’t drinking! We didn’t have no drugs or alcohol! It was just a concert sir! The boy had tears streaming down his face. Arthur stared at the boy, frozen. The boy stared back. Arthur turned to the officer. The officer glared.
Whatchu lookin at, boy? Arthur jumped, suddenly moved by an overwhelming rush of fear, and ran back into the crowd, squeezing and shoving past anyone in his path, haunted by the thought of the officer chasing after him, ready to jump on his back and slam his head into the floor and spill his brains out. He was so blinded by fear that he forgot about Johnny and his missing dad. His new first priority was to hide from the officer who wanted to spill his brains.
Arthur ran upstairs and hid in his own bedroom with four giggly college students. He didn’t leave his spot under the bed until he saw the four of them crowd around his bedroom window, pointing and covering their mouths. Arthur decided to join them. When his mind registered what exactly he was seeing through those dusty blinds, his heart dropped. He fled from his room, tripping on his rug in the process, and ran down the stairs. He pushed the front door open in time to see Johnny standing on his front lawn, crying harder than he was before, and the man he assumed to be Johnny’s father, crumple to the floor. Arthur was just in time to see the officer he encountered twenty minutes prior to this moment, pull the trigger and spill the brains of a tall, skinny black man with dreadlocks, a heavy brown jacket, and a leaf-shaped birthmark.
Chinonye Omeirondi is a high school junior from Southern California who often prefers the flexible world of fiction rather than harsh reality. In her free time, she listens to music and stresses about how humans are destined for destruction. Chinonye has prose published in The Heritage Review, The Incandescent Review, and is a co-editor-in-chief of the newly created Elysian Review. She also hates onions. Instagram: @chinonyeee
