Marcus is 17. He witnessed his cousin’s murder 127 days ago. Now car backfires sound like gunshots, he checks windows three times nightly, and 1,247 classmates watched him hit the ground on video. This is teen PTSD from community violence.

---

The Car Backfires at 3:47 PM

📍 Corner of Driver Street and Holloway, East Durham, NC
🕐 Wednesday, 3:47 PM, Early November
🌡️ 68°F, that warm fall afternoon when everyone’s outside

---

THE INVITATION

Hey, you.

I need you to come with me to Durham. East Durham, North Carolina specifically. Corner of Driver and Holloway. Right now. 3:47 PM on a Wednesday.

It’s one of those warm November afternoons where everybody’s out. Kids playing in yards. Old heads sitting on porches. Cars rolling by with windows down, music up. Normal day. Beautiful day.

We’re here to meet Marcus Elijah Thompson. He’s 17. Junior at Southern High School—the one on East Club Boulevard. Lives on N Driver Street with his mom Sharon (42, works double shifts at Duke Hospital) and his little sister Amaya (13, talks too much, plays too loud, drives him crazy in the way little sisters do).

Marcus is 6’1″, 160 pounds. Skinny—his mom says he needs to eat more but he’s never hungry anymore. Wears the same rotation of three hoodies: Southern High Basketball (he quit the team in August), a black Nike Tech, and his cousin’s old UNC hoodie that’s too big and has a bleach stain on the sleeve. Always wears his black Jordans—the 2023 retro 1s he saved up for, now creased to hell. Walks with his head down, earbuds in but no music playing most of the time. Just needs people to think he’s not available for conversation.

Right now, Marcus is walking home from school. Took the 4 bus to Angier Avenue like always, got off at the Shell station, started walking.

Except there’s construction on Angier. Orange cones. Detour signs. Road closed until November 15th.

Which means he can’t take his normal route home.

Which means he has to walk past the corner of Driver and Holloway.

The corner where his cousin Darius was shot 127 days ago. Marcus knows it’s 127 days because he counts. Every morning. Today is day 127.

And you and I are about to watch what happens when a 17-year-old boy with PTSD has to walk past the spot where he held his cousin while he died.

Watch his hands. Watch his breathing. Watch where his eyes go.

Because in about forty-five seconds, a 1998 Honda Civic with a bad muffler is going to backfire. It’s going to sound like a gunshot.

And Marcus is going to hit the ground.

In front of everybody.

Are you ready? He’s not. He’s never ready.

Let’s go.

---

THE TRIGGER: 3:47 PM

Marcus sees the construction cones from half a block away.

His stomach drops.

“Nah. Nah nah nah.”

He stops walking. Middle of the sidewalk. A woman has to walk around him. She sucks her teeth. He doesn’t notice.

He’s doing the math. The route math he does every day.

Normal route: Angier to N Driver, straight shot, eight minutes, doesn’t pass the corner.

Construction route: Have to cut through on Holloway, past the corner, past where it happened, where there’s still a memorial with teddy bears getting rained on and candles that people keep relighting and a poster board that says “RIP D-Block” with Darius’s face on it, smiling, before.

Alternative route: Go all the way around through Midway, adds twenty-five minutes, gets him home at 4:30, mom’s gonna ask why he’s late, can’t tell her, can’t tell her he’s scared to walk past a fucking street corner.

[You’re standing behind him. Watching him frozen on the sidewalk. What would you tell him to do?]

He starts walking. Toward Holloway. Toward the corner.

His hands are already shaking. He shoves them in his hoodie pocket.

His heart’s going. That fast thing it does. 120, 130, he can feel it in his throat.

He takes his earbuds out. Needs to hear everything. Can’t be caught off guard.

The sounds:

• Mrs. Patterson’s wind chimes three houses down (safe sound)
• Kids playing in a yard somewhere (safe sound)
• Car coming up behind him (threat assessment needed)

He turns. Looks. It’s a mom in a minivan. She waves. He doesn’t wave back. Turns forward.

He’s at the corner now. Twenty feet away.

The memorial’s still there. Bigger than last week. Someone added more flowers. Blue and white—Darius’s school colors. Someone added a framed photo—Darius at 14, playing basketball, mid-layup, concentrating. Marcus took that photo. On his phone. Before.

He can see the exact spot. Where Darius was. Where Marcus held him. Where the blood—

He stops breathing.

Not on purpose. His body just stops. Like someone hit pause.

A car’s coming up the street. Older car. Loud. That bass-heavy sound of bad exhaust.

Marcus tenses. Watches it.

1998 Honda Civic. Faded blue paint. Loud as hell.

It passes him. Keeps going.

He starts breathing again. Shallow. Fast.

He’s ten feet from the corner now. Has to pass it to get home. No other way.

Just walk fast. Don’t look. Don’t stop. Don’t think about—

POP

The Honda’s muffler backfires. Loud. Sharp. Echoes off houses.

Marcus is on the ground.

Flat. Face down. Hands over his head. Heart exploding. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. Just—

“Oh shit, little man, you good?”

Marcus opens his eyes. He’s on the sidewalk. His cheek is pressed against concrete. He can see leaves. A crack in the pavement. A cigarette butt.

Mr. Raymond from two doors down is coming over. 67 years old. Always on his porch. Saw everything.

MR. RAYMOND: “Son. Son, you alright?”

Marcus pushes himself up. His palms are scraped. His jeans have dirt on the knees. His face is hot. So hot.

MARCUS: (voice not working right) “I’m good.”

MR. RAYMOND: “That was just a car, youngblood. Just a backfire.”

MARCUS: “I know. I’m good.”

He’s not good. His hands won’t stop shaking. His chest is tight. He’s gonna throw up.

Three kids across the street are staring. One of them—DeShawn from school—is recording on his phone.

DESHAWN: (laughing) “Yo, Marcus really hit the deck!”

The other kids laugh. Not mean laughing. Just… laughing. Because it looks funny. Because they don’t get it.

Marcus stands up. Brushes off his jeans. Doesn’t look at them. Can’t look at them.

MR. RAYMOND: (quieter, kinder) “You want me to call your mama?”

MARCUS: “No. I’m good. I gotta—I gotta go.”

He walks away. Fast. Not running but almost. Away from the corner. Away from the laughing kids. Away from Mr. Raymond’s sad face that understands too much.

His phone buzzes. Text from DeShawn: “Bro you good? That was wild lmao”

Marcus doesn’t respond. Just walks. Fast. Head down. Hands still shaking.

Four minutes later, he’s home. Unlocking the door. His hands are shaking so bad it takes three tries to get the key in.

[You just watched a 17-year-old have a trauma response in public. How does that feel? Think about it before we continue.]

---

FOUR MONTHS AGO: JULY 15TH, 9:47 PM

Let me show you what happened. Let me show you why a car backfire makes him hit the ground.

July 15, 2024. Saturday night. 82°F, humid as hell.

Marcus and Darius at the court on Midway Avenue. The outside court with the chain nets and the asphalt all cracked but it’s their spot. Where they’ve been playing since they were 12 and 14.

Darius is 19. Just graduated from Hillside High. About to start at Durham Tech in the fall. Wants to be an electrician. Already working with his uncle on weekends learning the trade. Got accepted into the apprenticeship program. Everything lined up. Future looking good.

Darius and Marcus are cousins but more like brothers. Darius lived with them for two years when his mom was struggling. Taught Marcus how to shoot a jumper. How to talk to girls. How to tie a tie for eighth grade promotion. How to drive (illegally, in the parking lot behind Food Lion, don’t tell Sharon).

They’re playing one-on-one. Marcus is up 18-16. Next basket wins.

DARIUS: “You ain’t scoring on me, lil’ cuz.”

MARCUS: “Already told you, I got next.”

DARIUS: “You wish.”

Marcus drives left. Darius is on him. Marcus spins. Goes up for the layup—

A car rolls up. Black Charger. Tinted windows. Music off. That’s the detail Marcus remembers: the music was off.

Car stops. Twenty feet away. Engine running.

Darius sees it. His face changes.

DARIUS: (quiet, to Marcus) “Go home.”

MARCUS: “What?”

DARIUS: “Go home. Right now. Don’t run. Just walk.”

MARCUS: “D, what—”

DARIUS: “Marcus. GO.”

The car door opens.

Marcus knows the guy. Not his name. Just his face. Seen him around. Older. Maybe 25. Wearing all black.

The guy walks toward them. Slow.

GUY: “Yo. D.”

DARIUS: (stepping between Marcus and the guy) “What’s good?”

GUY: “You know what’s good. Where my shit at?”

DARIUS: “I told Rome I’m getting it. Next week. I got him.”

GUY: “Next week? Nah. That ain’t how this work.”

Darius turns his head slightly. Doesn’t take his eyes off the guy.

DARIUS: (to Marcus, still not looking at him) “Marcus. Go. Now.”

Marcus’s legs won’t move. He’s frozen. Watching.

GUY: “Your little cousin can stay. Watch what happen when people don’t pay what they owe.”

The guy pulls something from his waistband. Marcus sees it. Small. Black. Gun.

Everything slows down. That thing people say happens. It’s real. Time gets thick.

DARIUS: (hands up) “Yo, chill. Chill. It’s coming. I swear to God—”

GUY: “You swear to God? YOU SWEAR TO GOD?”

Three shots. Pop. Pop. Pop.

Not like the movies. Not loud like movies. Sharper. Flatter. Wrong.

Darius drops.

The guy runs back to the car. Car peels out. Gone.

Marcus is standing there. Basketball bouncing away, rolling into the grass. Chain nets still swinging from Darius reaching up during the shot attempt.

Darius is on the ground. On his back. Red spreading across his white t-shirt. So much red.

MARCUS: (can’t breathe, can’t move) “D?”

DARIUS: (coughing, blood in his mouth) “Call… call…”

Marcus’s hands shake as he pulls out his phone. Drops it. Picks it up. Fingers won’t work right. Finally gets 911.

911 OPERATOR: “911, what’s your emergency?”

MARCUS: “My cousin—he got shot—he’s—”

911 OPERATOR: “Okay, calm down. Where are you?”

MARCUS: “Midway. The court. By—by the apartments—”

911 OPERATOR: “Midway Avenue? Near which cross street?”

MARCUS: “I don’t—I don’t know—he’s bleeding—”

Darius reaches for him. Marcus drops the phone. Gets on his knees. Holds Darius’s hand.

DARIUS: (quiet, gurgling) “Tell Sharon… tell her I’m sorry…”

MARCUS: “Nah. You gonna tell her. You gonna—ambulance is coming—”

DARIUS: “Marcus…” (coughs) “…you good, little cuz. You good…”

His hand goes limp.

MARCUS: “D? D, no. No no no—D, wake up—”

The 911 operator is saying something. Marcus can’t hear it. Can only hear the sound Darius made. That last cough. That last breath.

People are coming now. Running over. Someone’s screaming. Someone’s pulling Marcus away. He’s covered in blood. Darius’s blood. All over his hands. His shirt. His jeans.

Sirens in the distance. Coming closer. Too late. Too fucking late.

Marcus sits on the curb. Shaking. Can’t stop shaking.

A cop arrives. Then two more. Then the ambulance. Paramedics run over. Work on Darius for six minutes.

Then stop.

One of them comes over to Marcus.

PARAMEDIC: “Son, I’m sorry.”

Marcus doesn’t respond. Can’t. Just sits there. Staring at his hands. At the blood.

His phone rings. Mom. He doesn’t answer.

Rings again. Answers.

SHARON: (on phone) “Marcus? Baby, where are you? Mrs. Johnson just called—”

MARCUS: (voice dead) “Mom.”

SHARON: “Baby, what happened? Are you hurt?”

MARCUS: “It’s D. He… Mom, he…”

SHARON: “Where are you? I’m coming. Stay there. Don’t move.”

The cop wants to ask questions. Marcus can’t talk. Just shakes his head.

This is what Marcus remembers most:

The basketball. Still sitting there in the grass. Just sitting there like nothing happened. Like they’re about to pick it up and keep playing. Next basket wins.

But they’re not.

Because Darius is dead on the asphalt.

And Marcus held him while he died.

And there’s nothing—NOTHING—that comes after that that can ever be normal again.

[You just watched a 17-year-old watch his cousin die. In detail. In real-time. Are you okay? Neither is Marcus. Neither will he ever be again.]

---

BACK TO WEDNESDAY: 4:02 PM, MARCUS’S ROOM

Marcus is sitting on his bed. Door locked. Lights off. Still wearing his hoodie even though it’s warm in here.

His hands are still shaking. He holds them together. Squeezes. Tries to make it stop. Doesn’t work.

His phone keeps buzzing. Group chat with his boys from school.

DESHAWN: “Yooo Marcus hit the FLOOR today 😂”

JAMAL: “Deadass? For what?”

DESHAWN: “Car backfire and bro went down like he got shot lmaooo”

JAMAL: “Nah fr? 💀”

DESHAWN: “On my mama. I got it on video”

JAMAL: “Send that 😂”

Marcus puts his phone face-down. Closes his eyes.

He’s back there. On Midway. Darius on the ground. The blood. The way Darius’s hand felt going limp in his.

His chest is tight. Can’t breathe right. Feels like drowning. Feels like—

He stands up. Paces. Four steps one way. Four steps back. His room is small. 10×12. Bed. Desk. Dresser. Posters of NBA players he doesn’t care about anymore. Everything feels smaller since July.

He goes to the window. Checks it. Locked. Checks it again. Still locked. Checks it a third time to be sure.

This is what he does now. Checks windows. Checks doors. Checks locks. Three times. Always three.

Amaya’s music is playing through the wall. She’s listening to Sexyy Red, loud as hell, singing along off-key. Normal 13-year-old shit. Marcus used to yell at her to turn it down. Now he’s grateful for it. Means she’s alive. Means she’s safe.

His mom’s not home yet. Won’t be until 7:00. Double shift. Again.

Marcus hasn’t told her about today. About hitting the ground. About DeShawn’s video that’s probably on somebody’s Instagram story by now.

Can’t tell her. She’s already worried. Already looking at him like he’s broken. Already asked him four times if he wants to “talk to someone.”

He doesn’t. Can’t. Wouldn’t know what to say.

His phone buzzes. Text from his mom: “Stopping at Food Lion on way home. You need anything?”

He types: “Nah I’m good”

He’s not good. Hasn’t been good in 127 days.

---

THE DAILY NAVIGATION: THURSDAY MORNING

6:23 AM. Marcus’s alarm goes off.

He’s been awake since 4:15 AM. Couldn’t sleep. Again. That’s normal now. Four, maybe five hours a night. Used to be eight.

He gets up. Showers. The water’s hot but he’s cold anyway. Always cold now even when it’s warm outside.

He gets dressed: black hoodie (the Nike Tech today), black jeans, Jordans. Same outfit he wears every day with minor variations. All dark colors. Wants to blend in. Disappear.

6:47 AM. Kitchen.

His mom’s making breakfast. She works night shift tonight so she’s up now, trying to make sure he eats.

SHARON: “Morning, baby. Made you eggs.”

MARCUS: “I’m not hungry.”

SHARON: “You gotta eat something. You’re wasting away.”

MARCUS: “I’ll eat at school.”

He won’t.

SHARON: (studying his face) “You sleep okay?”

MARCUS: “Yeah.”

SHARON: “Marcus.”

MARCUS: “Mom, I’m good.”

She doesn’t believe him. He can see it in her face. But she’s tired. Working doubles. Trying to pay bills. Can’t add “fix my broken son” to the list.

SHARON: “Amaya! Let’s go! Bus comes in ten minutes!”

Amaya comes running down. Backpack half-zipped. Talking a mile a minute about some drama at school. Marcus zones out. Watches his mom smile at Amaya. Listens to Amaya complain about her science teacher.

Normal. They’re normal. He’s not.

7:03 AM. Walking to the bus stop.

Marcus walks with Amaya for two blocks, then she splits off to her stop. He keeps walking to his.

It’s a beautiful morning. 62°F. Sun coming up. Birds doing their thing.

Marcus doesn’t notice. He’s scanning.

• Car parked on the left (empty, nobody inside)
• Man on the porch (old guy, knows him, safe)
• Two kids waiting at the corner (know them from the neighborhood, safe)
• Car coming up from behind (slowing down? why is it slowing down?)

Marcus stops walking. Turns. Watches the car.

It’s just turning into a driveway. Man getting out. Going to work.

Marcus exhales. Keeps walking.

This is what he does now. Threat assessment. Constant. Every person. Every car. Every sound.

Exhausting.

7:18 AM. Southern High School, Building C.

First period: U.S. History with Mrs. Davis. She’s nice. Tries too hard. Thinks she gets it because she grew up in Durham too.

She doesn’t.

Marcus sits in the back left corner. Not by choice. That’s the only seat where he can see both doors and the windows. Can’t sit with his back to anything. Can’t have people behind him.

Trevor, who sits there usually, complained. Mrs. Davis moved him. Didn’t ask Marcus why he needed that seat. Just moved Trevor.

Class starts. Mrs. Davis is talking about Reconstruction. Marcus is watching the door.

A locker slams in the hallway.

Marcus jumps. Visibly. Whole body.

Some kids notice. Giggle.

Mrs. Davis keeps teaching. Didn’t see it or pretends she didn’t.

Marcus stares at his notebook. Empty page. Can’t focus on Reconstruction. Can’t focus on anything except the fact that the door is open and someone could just walk in and—

His phone vibrates. Text from Jamal: “Yo you see DeShawn sent that video to the whole school”

Marcus’s stomach drops.

He opens Instagram. Checks DeShawn’s story.

There it is. Seven seconds of video. Marcus hitting the ground when the car backfires. Audio of DeShawn laughing. Caption: “My boy Marcus thought we was in a war zone 😂💀”

643 views already. 47 likes. 12 comments.

Comment from Brittany: “Y’all wrong for laughing 😭”

Comment from Trey: “PTSD is real y’all”

Comment from somebody he doesn’t know: “Bro really said 🫡➡️🤾”

Comment from Jamal: “Nah this got me WEAK”

Marcus closes the app. Puts his phone face-down.

Mrs. Davis is still talking. Something about Jim Crow laws. He should be listening. This’ll be on the test.

Can’t listen. Can only think about 643 people watching him hit the ground. Watching him be scared. Watching him be broken.

He gets up. Walks out. Mrs. Davis calls after him but he doesn’t stop.

Goes to the bathroom. Locks himself in a stall.

Sits there. Head in his hands. Breathing too fast.

Seven more hours until he can go home.

Seven more hours of people looking at him different.

Seven more hours of being the kid who can’t handle a car backfire.

Seven more hours of being broken in public.

[You’re standing in that bathroom stall with him. What do you say? What CAN you say?]

---

LUNCH PERIOD: 12:07 PM

Marcus is sitting alone. Not unusual. He’s been sitting alone since August when he quit the team.

The team sits three tables over. His ex-teammates. They’re loud. Happy. Talking about the game Friday. Southern vs. Riverside. Big game.

Marcus used to be starting point guard. Coach said he could make varsity next year. Maybe get looks from college scouts junior/senior year.

Then July happened. Then August preseason started. Then coach ran a drill with a whistle and Marcus couldn’t handle the sound. Sharp sound. Loud sound. Made him flinch every time.

Second week of practice, someone popped a basketball too hard. Sounded like a gunshot. Marcus was on the floor. In front of the whole team.

He quit the next day. Told coach he wasn’t feeling it anymore. Coach understood. Didn’t push.

His teammates didn’t understand. Jamal tried. Asked him what was up. Marcus said “Just not into it anymore.” Jamal stopped asking.

Now Marcus sits alone. Eats alone. (Doesn’t eat—just sits with food.)

His phone buzzes. Text from unknown number: “Yo this Marcus? It’s Coach. Just checking in. You good?”

Marcus stares at the text. Doesn’t know what to say. Types and deletes three different responses. Finally:

“Yeah I’m good”

Coach: “Door’s always open if you want to talk. Or if you want to come back to team. We miss you.”

Marcus doesn’t respond. Puts his phone away.

Jamal walks over. Sits down across from him.

JAMAL: “Yo.”

MARCUS: “What’s up.”

JAMAL: “You good?”

MARCUS: “Yeah.”

JAMAL: (pause) “About the video—”

MARCUS: “It’s cool.”

JAMAL: “Nah but like, DeShawn shouldn’t have—”

MARCUS: “It’s whatever.”

JAMAL: “Marcus, for real. I know since D died you been—”

MARCUS: (standing up) “I said it’s cool.”

He walks away. Dumps his tray. Didn’t eat anything.

Jamal watches him go. Looks confused. Looks hurt.

Marcus feels bad. Jamal’s his boy. Has been since sixth grade. Wasn’t trying to be an asshole.

But can’t explain. Can’t say: Every sound makes me think I’m about to watch someone die. Every car makes me think I’m about to get shot. Every moment I’m awake is threat assessment and I’m so fucking tired.

Can’t say that. So he just walks away.

---

AFTER SCHOOL: 3:34 PM

Marcus is taking the long route home today. The route that doesn’t go past the corner.

Adds twenty-two minutes. Gets him home at 4:30. Mom will ask why he’s late. He’ll say he had to stay after for help with a class. She’ll believe him because he’s still a good kid, still gets good grades, still does what he’s supposed to. On the outside.

He’s walking through the quieter neighborhood. Fewer people. Fewer cars. Safer.

A man’s walking toward him. 50s. White guy. Walking his dog.

Marcus’s body tenses. Watches the man. Watches the dog. Assesses threat level.

The man smiles. “Afternoon.”

Marcus nods. Doesn’t smile back. Keeps walking.

The man’s probably nice. Probably not a threat. Marcus knows this logically.

But logic doesn’t matter. His body doesn’t care about logic. His body only knows: be ready. Stay alert. Survive.

He’s three blocks from home when he sees the police car.

Parked on the corner. Engine running. Two cops inside. Just sitting there.

Marcus freezes. Can’t walk past them. Can’t do it.

They’re not doing anything. Just parked. Probably on break or something. Normal cop shit.

But Marcus can’t walk past.

Because cops mean questions. Cops mean that night. Cops mean “Did you see who did it?” and “Why won’t you tell us?” and “You know this is obstruction, right?”

He crosses the street. Takes a different way. Goes the long way around the long way.

Gets home at 4:47 PM.

His mom’s not home yet. Good.

Amaya’s home. Doing homework at the kitchen table. Music playing from her phone.

AMAYA: “Where you been?”

MARCUS: “School.”

AMAYA: “School ended at 3:15.”

MARCUS: “Had to stay after.”

AMAYA: (suspicious) “For what?”

MARCUS: “None of your business.”

AMAYA: “You’re such a jerk lately.”

She’s right. He is.

He goes to his room. Locks the door. Checks the window. Three times.

Sits on his bed. Takes out his phone. Opens Instagram.

The video’s up to 1,247 views now. 93 likes.

He watches it. Watches himself hit the ground. Watches himself look scared.

He looks weak. He looks crazy. He looks broken.

He is broken.

He deletes Instagram from his phone. Doesn’t matter. The video’s still there. People have already seen it. Screenshots exist.

Can’t delete what people saw.

Can’t delete July 15th.

Can’t delete the sound of Darius’s last breath.

Can’t delete any of it.

---

THAT NIGHT: 2:47 AM

Marcus is awake. Has been for an hour.

Had the dream again. Same one every time:

He’s on the court. Playing with D. Everything’s normal. Then the car pulls up. But this time, when the guy pulls the gun, Marcus moves. Pushes D out of the way. Takes the bullets instead.

And he dies. And D lives.

But he always wakes up before the dying part. Always wakes up gasping.

He’s in bed now. Staring at the ceiling. Amaya’s asleep in her room. Mom’s asleep down the hall. Everyone’s asleep except him.

He gets up. Checks the window. Locked. Checks it again. Still locked. Checks it a third time.

Goes to the door. Locked. Checks it again. Still locked. Third time.

Goes back to bed. Lies there. Staring.

His phone lights up. Text from unknown number: “Yo Marcus this is Trey from school. I saw that video. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your cousin. My brother got shot two years ago. I know what it’s like. If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

Marcus stares at the text. Doesn’t know Trey well. Knows he’s a senior. Knows he plays football. Didn’t know about his brother.

Marcus types: “Thanks”

Trey: “For real. It don’t get easier but it gets different. You learn how to live with it. Sort of.”

Marcus doesn’t respond. Doesn’t know what to say.

But something about that text—”it gets different”—makes him feel less alone. Just for a second.

He closes his eyes. Tries to sleep.

Can’t.

2:47 AM. The same time he wakes up every night. The time his brain decided is wake-up time now.

He stares at the ceiling. Counts the cracks. Loses count. Starts over.

Four more hours until his alarm. Four more hours of being awake in the dark. Four more hours of waiting for morning so he can pretend to be okay.

---

FRIDAY: THE MEMORIAL

4:17 PM. Marcus is standing at the corner of Driver and Holloway.

He didn’t plan to come here. Was walking home. Meant to take the long route. Ended up here anyway. Like his feet knew where they needed to go.

The memorial is bigger now. Someone added a big framed photo of Darius. Senior picture. Wearing his cap and gown. Smiling so big. Had his whole life ahead of him.

Someone added a basketball. Deflated now. Just sitting there in the grass.

Marcus kneels down. Touches the basketball. Same kind they were playing with that night. Wilson. Outdoor. Orange and black.

MR. RAYMOND: (from his porch) “You good, youngblood?”

Marcus looks up. Mr. Raymond’s there like always. Watching the corner. Watching the neighborhood. Watching the kids. Trying to keep them safe. Can’t keep them all safe.

MARCUS: “Yeah.”

MR. RAYMOND: “Come sit for a minute.”

Marcus doesn’t want to. But his legs are tired. Everything’s tired.

He walks over. Sits on the porch steps.

MR. RAYMOND: “You doing alright? After the other day?”

MARCUS: “I’m good.”

MR. RAYMOND: “You ain’t good. And that’s okay.”

Marcus doesn’t respond.

MR. RAYMOND: “I seen that happen before. What happened to you. PTSD. Had it myself. Vietnam. Long time ago. But I remember.”

MARCUS: (quiet) “Yeah?”

MR. RAYMOND: “Yeah. Couldn’t handle fireworks for twenty years. Loud noises. Crowds. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t trust nobody.”

MARCUS: “How’d you… how’d you make it stop?”

MR. RAYMOND: (pause) “It don’t stop. Not really. You just learn to live with it. Learn your triggers. Learn to breathe through it. Talk to somebody who gets it.”

MARCUS: “I can’t talk about it.”

MR. RAYMOND: “Why not?”

MARCUS: “Because if I talk about it, it’s real. And if it’s real, then I gotta admit that D’s really gone and I couldn’t save him and I just watched him die and I didn’t do nothing—”

He stops. Realizes he’s crying. Didn’t even notice it starting.

MR. RAYMOND: “Son. You was seventeen. You ain’t trained. You ain’t armed. There wasn’t nothing you could do.”

MARCUS: “I should’ve done something.”

MR. RAYMOND: “You called 911. You stayed with him. You didn’t run. That’s something.”

MARCUS: “It wasn’t enough.”

MR. RAYMOND: “No. It wasn’t. Because ain’t nothing ever enough when someone you love gets taken like that. But it wasn’t your fault. You hear me?”

Marcus doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. Just sits there crying on Mr. Raymond’s porch.

MR. RAYMOND: “Your mama know you struggling like this?”

MARCUS: (wiping his face) “She knows. She don’t know what to do about it. We can’t afford—” (stops)

MR. RAYMOND: “Can’t afford therapy?”

MARCUS: “She works doubles. We barely making it. I ain’t gonna ask her to pay for me to talk to somebody about feelings.”

MR. RAYMOND: “Feelings? Boy, you got trauma. That ain’t feelings. That’s injury. Invisible injury, but injury. Needs treatment same as a broke bone.”

MARCUS: “I’m handling it.”

MR. RAYMOND: “You handling it by hitting the ground when cars backfire? You handling it by not sleeping? By quitting basketball? By walking the long way home every day to avoid this corner?”

Marcus looks at him. How does he know all that?

MR. RAYMOND: “I see you, youngblood. I see you walking past here at 4:30 every day when you used to walk past at 4:00. I see you checking over your shoulder. I see you avoiding this corner. I see you not being okay. Because I was you. Fifty years ago. Different war. Same trauma.”

MARCUS: “What am I supposed to do?”

MR. RAYMOND: “You start by admitting you need help. Then you find help. Durham Crisis Center on Chapel Hill Road. Free counseling for youth. Trauma specialists. I can write down the number.”

MARCUS: “I don’t know if I can—”

MR. RAYMOND: “Can’t or won’t?”

Marcus doesn’t have an answer.

Mr. Raymond goes inside. Comes back with a piece of paper. Phone number written on it. (919) 403-6562.

MR. RAYMOND: “When you ready. Not if. When. Because you gonna keep hitting that ground until you deal with what’s making you hit that ground. You understand?”

Marcus takes the paper. Puts it in his pocket.

MR. RAYMOND: “And Marcus? What happened to D? That’s on the person who pulled that trigger. Not on you. Not on D. On them. Don’t carry their burden.”

Marcus nods. Can’t speak. If he speaks he’ll start crying again.

He stands up. “Thanks, Mr. Raymond.”

MR. RAYMOND: “Anytime, youngblood. My door’s always open. You need somewhere to sit and not talk, you come here. You need somewhere to sit and talk, you come here. You need somewhere to sit and cry, you come here. Understood?”

MARCUS: “Yes sir.”

He walks home. The short way. Past the corner. Past the memorial.

It doesn’t get easier. But he makes it.

[You just watched an adult actually SEE this kid. Actually offer help. Actually understand. Does that feel rare? It should. Because it is.]

---

THE REFLECTION: SATURDAY, 10:47 AM, MIDWAY BASKETBALL COURT

We’re at the court now. You and me. Where it happened. Where Darius died. Where Marcus’s world split into before and after.

It’s empty. Saturday morning. Nobody playing. Too early. Or maybe people avoid it now. Maybe it’s marked. Maybe everyone knows.

The asphalt has been pressure-washed. No blood. But Marcus knows exactly where it was. Will always know.

ME: “So. What did you just witness?”

YOU: [Take your time. Really feel this.]

ME: “Here’s what you saw over the last three days: A 17-year-old boy navigating a world that’s full of landmines only he can see.”

ME: “You watched him hit the ground when a car backfired. You watched 1,247 people watch him hit the ground. You watched him become a meme. A joke. ‘Marcus thought we was in a war zone 😂💀.'”

ME: “But you also watched what actually happened on July 15th. You watched him hold his cousin while he died. You watched him call 911 with shaking hands. You watched him try to keep Darius alive through sheer force of will.”

ME: “And it wasn’t enough. Because how could it be? He’s seventeen. He’s a kid. And kids aren’t supposed to watch their cousins get murdered over $800 drug debt while playing basketball on a Saturday night.”

ME: “You watched him walk the long way home every day. Add twenty-two minutes to avoid one corner. You watched him check windows three times. You watched him not sleep. You watched him not eat. You watched him quit the thing he loved because loud whistles sound like gunshots.”

ME: “You watched his friends not understand. You watched them laugh at the video. You watched them ask ‘You good?’ and accept ‘I’m good’ even though it’s obvious he’s not good.”

ME: “And you watched the system fail him. No school counselor checking in. No coach asking the hard questions. No automatic trauma support after witnessing a murder. Just Marcus, alone, doing his best to survive every single day.”

ME: “This is what community violence trauma looks like. Not PTSD in a textbook. Not a news story about ‘youth violence in Durham.’ This. Marcus. Seventeen. Can’t walk past a corner. Can’t handle loud sounds. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t be who he was before.”

ME: “And here’s what makes it unbearable: This is normal. In certain neighborhoods. In certain communities. Kids growing up with this. Multiple exposures. Multiple losses. No support. Just expected to ‘get over it’ or ‘stay strong’ or ‘be a man.'”

ME: “Marcus is one of thousands. In Durham. In every city. Walking around with invisible injuries that everyone sees but nobody treats.”

A car goes by. Music playing. Bass thumping. Normal Saturday.

ME: “You know what the cruelest part is?”

YOU: [What?]

ME: “Marcus thinks he’s weak. Thinks hitting the ground makes him a coward. Thinks quitting basketball makes him a failure. Thinks not being able to ‘get over it’ means something’s wrong with HIM.”

ME: “But nothing’s wrong with him. His brain is doing exactly what it’s supposed to do after witnessing trauma. It’s protecting him. Keeping him alert. Keeping him alive. The problem is that the threat isn’t gone. The violence isn’t gone. The trauma isn’t one-time. It’s ongoing. Environmental.”

ME: “He can’t heal in the same environment that hurt him. Can’t feel safe on streets where people get shot. Can’t relax in a neighborhood where cars sound like gunshots because sometimes they ARE gunshots.”

ME: “And even if he gets help—even if he calls that number Mr. Raymond gave him, goes to counseling, learns coping mechanisms—he still has to walk home through the same streets. Still has to pass the same corner. Still has to live in the same reality.”

ME: “That’s the impossible part. Not the trauma. The having to keep living in the place where trauma happens.”

ME: “Marcus’s story isn’t about one bad thing happening. It’s about living in a place where bad things keep happening. Where memorials stack up on corners. Where everybody knows somebody who got shot. Where ‘stay safe’ isn’t just a saying, it’s a survival strategy.”

ME: “And the world looks at kids like Marcus and asks: Why can’t you just focus in school? Why did you quit basketball? Why are you so jumpy? Why can’t you just be normal?”

ME: “Because normal died on July 15th. Because normal is a luxury for people who haven’t watched someone they love die on a basketball court over $800.”

Two kids walk up. Maybe 13, 14. Carrying a basketball. They see us. Stop.

KID 1: “Y’all playing?”

ME: “No. Court’s yours.”

They walk on. Start playing. Shooting around. Laughing. Normal kids. For now.

ME: “See them? Marcus was them. Eighteen months ago. Playing on this court. Carefree. Whole life ahead of him.”

ME: “Now he’s them plus 127 days of trauma. Plus PTSD. Plus survival strategies. Plus shame for being ‘weak.’ Plus isolation. Plus fear that it’ll happen again. That it’ll be him next time. Or Amaya. Or his mom.”

ME: “That’s what one incident of community violence does. Multiplied by however many times. Multiplied by however many kids.”

ME: “Marcus is surviving. But surviving isn’t thriving. Surviving is checking windows three times. Surviving is walking the long way. Surviving is hitting the ground when cars backfire and then watching yourself become a meme.”

ME: “And nobody—NOBODY—should have to call that surviving. That should be called what it is: ongoing crisis.”

---

EPILOGUE: WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

Two weeks later:

• Marcus called the number Mr. Raymond gave him
• Got an intake appointment for the following Tuesday
• Missed it (couldn’t make himself go)
• Mr. Raymond drove him to the second appointment
• He went

First therapy session:

• Didn’t talk for 20 minutes
• Therapist (Ms. Jenkins, 50s, Black woman, from Durham, gets it) just sat with him
• Finally said: “I can’t stop thinking about it”
• She said: “That’s normal after what you experienced”
• He cried for 30 minutes

One month later:

• Still going to therapy (Tuesdays, 4 PM)
• Still checking windows three times
• Still walking the long way sometimes
• Starting to walk past the corner sometimes
• Still not sleeping great
• Started a journal (therapist’s suggestion, helps sometimes)

Two months later:

• Video got taken down (Marcus reported it, Instagram removed it)
• Had a panic attack in the cafeteria (someone dropped a tray, loud noise)
• Jamal sat with him after, didn’t ask questions, just sat
• Ms. Jenkins taught him breathing exercises
• They help sometimes

Three months later:

• Went to the court for the first time since July
• Didn’t play, just sat there
• Cried
• Mr. Raymond was there, didn’t say anything, just sat with him
• Feels like maybe one day he’ll play again
• Not yet, but one day

Four months later:

• Spring semester started
• Mrs. Davis pulled him aside, said she noticed he’s been struggling, asked if there’s anything the school can do
• He said “Not really” but appreciated her asking
• School counselor called him in, offered accommodations
• Now has a seat preference form on file, teachers know he needs to sit where he can see doors
• Small thing, helps

Present day (six months after July 15th):

• Day 183 since D died
• Still counts days
• Ms. Jenkins says he might always count days, that’s okay
• Still in therapy
• Mom knows now, drove him last week when Mr. Raymond couldn’t
• She cried when he told her everything
• She’s going to therapy too now (same center, different therapist)

The violence:

• Still happening
• Another shooting two blocks over last month
• Marcus heard the sirens, had to leave school early
• The memorial on Driver and Holloway has new stuff added weekly
• Different names now
• Different kids
• Same corner
• Same grief

Marcus’s current state:

• Still hypervigilant (probably always will be)
• Still has nightmares (less frequent, still bad)
• Still avoids certain triggers (getting better at managing)
• Started writing poetry in his journal (helps process feelings)
• Thinks about D every day (Ms. Jenkins says that’s not going to stop)
• Some days are okay, some days he can’t get out of bed
• Learning that’s okay too

What hasn’t happened:

• He hasn’t “gotten over it” (you don’t get over witnessing murder)
• He hasn’t “moved on” (that’s not how trauma works)
• He hasn’t “gone back to normal” (there is no going back)
• He hasn’t stopped being scared (world is still scary)

What has happened:

• He asked for help
• He’s learning he’s not weak for having PTSD
• He’s learning his reactions are normal responses to abnormal events
• He’s learning to sit with the pain instead of fighting it
• He’s learning that healing isn’t linear
• He’s learning that surviving is enough for now

This is still Marcus’s story.

He’s still here.

Still surviving.

Day by day.

Trigger by trigger.

Corner by corner.

One therapy session at a time.

This is what living with community violence trauma looks like.

Not healed. Not cured. Not “over it.”

Just learning how to carry it.

---

SAGE’S FINAL NOTE

You just spent forty minutes inside the mind of a 17-year-old boy with PTSD from community violence exposure.

You watched him hit the ground when a car backfired.

You watched him become a meme.

You watched him hold his cousin while he died.

You watched him check windows three times every night.

You watched him walk the long way home to avoid one corner.

You watched him try to explain and give up and stay silent.

You watched him survive.

If you’re a teen reading this and you recognized yourself in Marcus:

This is trauma. What you’re experiencing has a name: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s not weakness. It’s not being “too sensitive.” It’s your brain doing what it’s supposed to do after experiencing something no one should have to experience.

Resources that are free:

• Durham Crisis Center: (919) 403-6562 (Free counseling for youth)
• National Crisis Textline: Text HOME to 741741
• Trevor Project (for LGBTQ+ youth): 1-866-488-7386
• Boys & Men of Color National Helpline: 1-855-661-2623

If you’re a parent/teacher/adult reading this:

These kids are sitting in your classrooms. Walking past you in the halls. Saying “I’m good” when they’re not good.

Signs to watch for:

• Changed behavior after traumatic exposure
• Avoiding specific locations
• Hypervigilance/jumpiness
• Withdrawal from activities they loved
• Sleep problems
• Can’t concentrate
• Irritability or emotional numbness

Don’t ask “Are you okay?”

They’ll say yes.

Instead try:

• “I noticed you seem different since [event]. That’s normal after what happened.”
• “I’m here if you want to talk, or if you just need somewhere quiet to sit.”
• “Would it help if I connected you with someone who specializes in trauma?”

If you’ve never experienced community violence:

Now you know what it looks like.

Not in statistics. Not in news reports.

In a 17-year-old checking windows three times at 2:47 AM.

In a boy walking the long way home every single day.

In someone hitting the ground when a car backfires because last time a loud sound meant watching someone die.

This is real. This is happening. This is Marcus.

And Marcus is thousands of kids.

In Durham. In every city. Right now.

Surviving trauma no one should have to survive.

Learning to live in a world that keeps hurting them.

And doing it mostly alone.

—The Seasoned Sage

---

[For Marcus. For Darius. For every kid who’s had to learn the difference between fireworks and gunshots. For every kid counting days since it happened. For every kid who checks windows three times. For every kid surviving what they shouldn’t have to survive.]

---

[Day 183. And counting. Still here. Still surviving. That’s enough.]

---

You might have experienced “Lived Experience”

Because a teen in Durham who’s lived this will read “checking windows three times” and feel seen.

Because “surviving isn’t thriving” but it’s still enough.

Because the video going to 1,247 views is the secondary trauma.

Because Mr. Raymond giving him the number is the exact help that actually shows up.

Because there’s no neat ending—just day 183 and counting.

Because this is what living with community violence trauma actually looks like.

Raw. Ongoing. Survivable. But never, ever “fine.”