Listen to the author reading this piece:
Author note: I wrote this piece three and a half years ago, right after my cousin was murdered. I thought of it again today because the second of my cousin’s murderers was finally found guilty of multiple charges, including murder.
My cousin was murdered last month. Least I think he was my cousin. He was my aunt’s grandson, so I figure cousin, right? Except my aunt is my half-aunt cause she had a different father from my birthmother, so was he my half-cousin or some distant, tenuous relation? Doesn’t matter, not really. I never met him and now, I never will.
There are pictures. Being fourteen, he was mostly on Snapchat but being middle-aged, I see the ones on Facebook. In them, he’s smiling. Carefree. Like his whole life’s ahead of him, not behind. And he’s looking forward to living that life. His family may not have much; he may live in a small town on the edge of a big desert but the open sky is full of star shine and he’s full of dreams.
Fourteen. Fourteen. Who gets murdered at fourteen? Plenty, it seems.
America. Where these days you’ve a God-given right to not only carry a gun but shoot it. If guns are legal, why isn’t murder? Cause what else do you need a gun for other than killing?
Didn’t used to be like that. Sure, when I lived in San Francisco—the Mission, near the gangland of Valentia Street Gardens— I’d hear gunfire on a regular basis, but it was like throbbing bass leaking from thick warehouse walls of an illegal rave. Close, but distant. I worked in the Financial District and on Sundays, sat behind the counter of a quiet corner shop owned by Ramses, a Palestinian who kept the liquor shelves stocked but not so much the freezer. Sometimes in quiet moments as I watched old shows on the older TV, I wondered if I’d ever be robbed but didn’t worry about it much.
I left over twenty years ago now. Moved to Belfast where war was called “The Troubles” like Northern Ireland was some delinquent teenager. There were guns and this pervasive—not fear, so much—but heightened awareness of potential threat. No open carry, guns were hidden same as bombs. I had to check my wheel well before I started the car. Look for wires, things that shouldn’t be there. Left my baby in the car seat by my front door, out of the way, just in case my car blew up when I started it.
It was a stressful way to live, and I couldn’t imagine spending your whole life like that, so we moved before our eldest was even walking. Down south, someplace where only farmers had guns, mostly to scare off crows but sometimes, rarely, to murder relatives over land. If you’ve seen The Field, you get the gist.
I have two sons. They’re older now but when my youngest was fourteen he was always sneaking out of the house at night. I’d lock all the doors, hide the keys; he’d crawl out a window. Locking all the windows kept him in for a bit but I’d get comfortable; sleep sound knowing he was tucked safe in his bed. Leave the key out. Not on purpose, just forgot. And he’d always know. Always find it. Like a homing pigeon except one who always flew away.
I don’t know where he used to go. With friends mostly. Down by the canal where the Guards wouldn’t see them. Smoke whatever they smoked. Shoot the shit.
Not each other.
My cousin snuck out of his house in the middle of the night too. Fourteen. Typical, right? Maybe he met some girl under the school bleachers; played COD in a friend’s basement; sat with friends on benches in a fast food parking lot and listened to highway flyby. Smoked a bit. Shot the shit.
Shot each other.
My cousin drove to the desert with a sixteen-year-old Arizona runaway and a local eighteen-year-old to shoot guns. Maybe he thought the older boys were his friends, maybe he wanted them to be as he took aim and shot at the stars, cause everyone knows if you wish on a falling star, your wish will come true. I’m guessing that never, not for one minute, did he think he’d become one himself.
At some point the older boys grew bored, angry, high, who knows, who cares, does it matter? Decided they wanted my cousin’s gun.
Shot him for it.
Stabbed him too. Maybe to shut him up. Maybe for good measure. Just to make sure. Maybe he didn’t die straight away. Maybe he cried for his mother. Cried for mercy. Cried for the future he’d never have.
Prayed.
When his mom went to wake him for school the next morning, she found him gone. They searched for two days. I saw the callouts, the posts on Facebook, the MISSING notices, the increasingly desperate pleas for any information. No one expects a young kid in a small town to go missing, even when it happens all the time, it never happens here.
To us.
The cops discovered a Snapchat video of him shooting into the night, city blazing on the horizon and were able to pushpin him on a map. Found him in the desert where his body had been dumped. Where he lay dead or dying under sun and stars.
A day before my cousin’s murder I was lying on the floor of my sitting room exercising in some vain attempt to ward off the ravages of middle-age when a framed picture fell off the wall in the hallway. I was alone in the house and there was no reason for it to have fallen—the nail was still in the wall, the hook on the picture. I talked to another writer friend about it. How I’d had terrible déjà vu the day before, now this. She told me any time she’s had a picture fall for no reason, someone’s died. Not someone close, but someone she’d know. Who’s the picture of, she asked me.
No one, I said, just some desert plant.
It’s been 25 years or more since I’ve been in New Mexico. There is no place like it on earth. The desert. The sky that strings all the heavens together, cloud fluff like drifting hot air balloons, the desolate magic not as if all the Gods slept there but were buried. I remember watching Breaking Bad a few years back and thinking, that’s not the New Mexico I know. Maybe not, but maybe that’s what it is, and my memories are pure imaginings like when people think of Ireland and think of green hills and fairies, not bombs.
No one’s prepared for a fourteen-year-old’s murder so there’s a GoFundMe page for funeral expenses. On the page, there’s a picture of my cousin, Ashton. He’s smiling. The family resemblance is there. Not in the smile, cause mostly I don’t. But around the eyes. Eyes looking slightly up and off to the distance. Eyes full of stars in a desert of darkness.
Rest in Peace, Ashton Remondini. Taken too soon, Tuesday, April 26, 2022
Barbara Byar is a working-class American writer living in Ireland for over 25 years. Her critically acclaimed, collection of stories: Some Days Are Better Than Ours (Reflex Press) was short-listed for the Saboteur Awards. Her short fiction has been published and prize-listed widely. She was shortlisted for the Irish Book Awards Irish Short Story of the Year in 2023 and longlisted in 2021. A recipient of an Irish Arts Council Literature Bursary and an Agility Award, she is editor of MOTEL from Cowboy Jamboree Press. Her debut novel, In the Desert will be published 3-3-2026 by Cowboy Jamboree Press.
Her writing can be found at barbarabyar.wordpress.com
Wow, Barbara. I’m floored. You are so full of stories. This is just so sad, but a lovely tribute and brilliantly told.