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The ominous wailing of the ambulance’s siren could be heard by the residents of the small community of Edgerly, as they were outside of their homes gleefully setting off their fireworks and shooting their guns in the air. Some stopped to see where the ambulance was coming from. Who was in it? What had happened?
Up and down the tiny community’s single main street, firecrackers were cracking and the sky was being lit up with bright, colorful fireworks displays. The steady boom of the large rockets could be heard from every direction. The night was clear, and the stars twinkled in the midnight sky amid the colorful explosions. The sound of shotguns and handguns could be heard firing into the night sky as the celebration continued.
Edgerly was rich with country traditions, and all of the people who lived there knew everything about their neighbors. Most of the occupants were relatives – sons and daughters, parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles – all living close to each other. The community was not inside the city limits of its nearest neighboring communities, so shooting off fireworks and guns was not regulated.
As my sister and brother-in-law sped behind the ambulance carrying their son, Brian, they hoped for a miracle that was not to be granted to them that night. Brian and his friend had been cleaning and checking their guns before going outside to shoot them in the air at midnight to ring in the New Year. His best friend sat directly across from him on the bed checking the pistol he would be shooting. The crack from the barrel was completely unexpected as the gun went off.
Brian looked at his friend with a look of disbelief and said, “Man, you shot me.” He closed his eyes and fell over onto the floor. His buddies, believing that he was playing a joke on them, laughed and told him to get up. When his best friend grabbed his arm to turn him over, there was no response. Fear began to creep in as the realization came that he was not joking. A tiny trickle of blood flowed from the hole in his upper chest where the bullet had entered.
The young men began to panic and scream as Brian’s parents rushed in to see what was wrong. Someone called 9-1-1, and the ambulance sped to the scene. My nephew never regained consciousness that night. He was pronounced dead at the stroke of midnight. The tiny 22-caliber bullet had ricocheted off of his collar bone and pierced his heart.
As I returned home from my own New Year’s celebration with friends, I received the phone call that my oldest nephew was dead – shot by his own gun in the hand of his best friend. My heart was numb with disbelief as I always thought my “little B.J.” would live forever. I prayed for his parents, his brother, and his best friend, but my prayers for Brian were too late. At the age of 22, his life was needlessly and tragically ended at the stroke of midnight as the old year passed away and the New Year began.
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