Pebbles Beach
Cut for Time | Episode 3
We were coming back from the Village, still laughing from whatever mess we got into earlier that night. The pier had been good to us. That place always was. Amanda had on this long synthetic wig, auburn with a hard middle part. Her jeans were tight. Her nails were sharp. Her spirit was loud, and she never turned it down for anyone.
On the train ride back to Brooklyn, she spotted him. One of those hoodie-wearing boys who wouldn’t meet your eye but kept sneaking glances like his curiosity might accidentally slip out of his mouth. Amanda clocked it fast. She leaned over, whispered, “He trade,” with a smirk, and then floated over to his side of the train like she was headed to a stage.
She was rubbing his knee by the second stop. She glanced back at us, beaming, mouthing something like “girl please.” We didn’t interrupt. That wasn’t our job. Ours was to keep a quiet watch. Unspoken rules.
When we got off at her stop, she walked ahead with him. His hood still up. His head still down. Amanda said she wasn’t bringing him into her apartment. “I’m taking him to Pebbles Beach,” she said. That was what we called the rooftop. Covered in pale white gravel, rough and glinting, it was a place for secrets. People went up there for drinks, for smoke, for air, for things that didn’t belong indoors.
She flashed us a signal as they went inside. Nothing serious. Just a little wave.
We stayed on the bench out front, letting her have her moment, giving space.
Twenty minutes later, we heard the scream.
It wasn’t the kind you think about in movies. It was hoarse, bottomless. Then a thud that made the building shake.
We ran to the side of the complex. Amanda was there.
Her pants were down. Her body crumpled in a way you don’t forget. Twelve floors.
The sirens took too long.
When they came, they looked down at her like she was a joke someone else had told first. The officers made comments under their breath. One of them laughed through a mouthful of powdered donut.
They asked us vague questions, the kind meant to push you away. “You live here?” “What were you doing out this late?” “How do you know that person?” It felt like we were the ones on trial.
The coroner showed up, looked once, and said, “I’m gonna need a double pair of gloves for this one.”
We followed the van down to the morgue. Told them we were there to identify Amanda. They said no Amanda had come in. Only a John Doe. No female on file.
We told them that was our sister. That she had no family. That we were her people.
They looked us over and said, “That’s not a sister. That’s a man.”
They wouldn’t let us see her. Wouldn’t let us speak her name. We weren’t legal. That’s all that mattered to them.
We went to the precinct, tried to file a report, tried to give a statement. The officer behind the glass smirked before we even started talking. They scribbled on their pads like it was a waste of time. When we asked about a follow-up, someone said, “You people always make things complicated.”
A few days later, we went back to her building. Her room had already been cleared. Her trophies were in the dumpster. Her wigs. Her heels. Her notes and pictures. Everything gone.
Just like that.
And that’s what I remember when I scroll through social media now. When I see headlines about DEI programs being dismantled. When I hear about safe spaces in danger of being shut down. When I see names trending and realize someone else has vanished or been found unalived in a park or washed up on a shoreline.
It’s not fear of something new. It’s the weight of something I’ve already survived once.
Because when we disappear, we don’t always get justice. We don’t always get a name.
Sometimes we just get erased.
Cut for Time is a collection of quiet scenes. Moments that didn't make the movie, but stayed in the bones. Some read like memory. Some like fiction. All of them linger.
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