After The Storm:Brandon
Brandon Rollins was always a troubled youth. At an early age, he got involved in a local gang. The gang activity started as a way to belong...he never felt he did. It started small, graffiti and other vandalism. Then it spread to altercations, assault, muggings. Though there were lines Brandon wouldn't cross. He wouldn't touch or mess around with drugs. His activity increased, moving to car theft. But he always refused to mess with drugs. "That's what happened to my mother. I won't touch the shit!" he could be heard saying. The lack of loyalty didn't sit well with the gang hierarchy. So when the gang needed to make a sacrifice, it was Brandon that was given the short straw. During a routine car theft, the police came up on Brandon as he was driving off. He was pulled over, and since he was underage wasn't overly worried. But this car also had drugs stashed in it. Watered down, but enough to put him in juvenile the rest of his time in school.
Brandon ended up spending 3 years in juvie, but spent the time well. He was mentored by Darryl King, a detention office who pushed him to do something with his life. He saw potential in Brandon, and provided the encouragement, support, and family that Brandon sorely lacked growing up. He received his GED while in juvie, then wen ton to a 4 year college afterward. He was able to get grants as a special "clean up the crime" measure to cover the college. And he was bright. Brandon studied Social Work, understanding that he knew more than so many others what these youths needed.
After graduation, Brandon began working with the local churches in his spare time, working on outreach programs for the youth in his old neighborhood. He worked with Father Dennis McNamara and worked to provide an outlet for the kids susceptible to the appeal of gangs. His old gang, however, did not appreciate this. They knew he was coming back, and they warned him. But Brandon refused to back down. So they hit him where it hurt. Brandon showed up to the parish to help set up an evening basketball tournament with the youth. He knew something was wrong when he opened the door, but had no foresight of what he would find.
Brandon walked back toward the rear of the church, and noticed something odd by the confessional. A dark stain coming from the priest entrance. He rushed over, and found Father McNamara, bleeding and barely conscious. Caught up in anger, rage, frustration, helplessness, Brandon grabbed the priest's hands which were holding his rosary.
"Who did this Father Mac? Who came in here and did this to you?" He questioned, though he knew the answer deep in his heart. He had been warned. He didn't consider the extent the gang would push things.
Father McNamara was gasping, trying to say something. Brandon screamed for help, yelling for anyone who could come help. He grabbed his cell phone, trying to call 911 to get help for the priest.
Father McNamara was able to get his cracking voice to utter "Forgive them...of their sins...Brandon. Do not...hold them...to this. It is not for you...to judge. That is the Lord's domain."
One hand holding the priest's hands and rosary, his other hand holding his cell phone with 911 answering, the storm struck. His phone died. Father McNamara breathed his last, bloody spittle rattling out of his lips against Brandon's face, and energies coalesced around Brandon changing him. His anger darkened his spirit, but the priest's forgiveness battled with it.
"Yes, Father Mac. Judgment is the Lord's. As is forgiveness. But they must have confession. All of them, must have confession."
Two hours later, the police were still going over the parish. Checking the scene, looking for witnesses. Brandon has spoken to far too many police for his taste. Always the same questions. Again and again. But Father McNamara never told him who did it. He couldn't tell the police his inner knowledge. "No, Father McNamara didn't have any enemies." How many times can you say that same damn thing?
When the questions finally finished, Brandon was allowed to leave. The police had his information, and he did have a record for trying to help the youth. Nobody noticed that he had the rosary the priest had held. The blood dried on it, and on his hands. Nobody noticed the burning inside his eyes. And nobody expected any convictions to come from this unless the perps were just plain stupid. And they often weren't.
