They Were Still Lying There When Police Got to Cleoford Avenue
The early morning hush on Cleoford Avenue was shattered by a violence so sudden, so final, it left a neighborhood reeling. By the time police arrived, the scene was already soaked in tragedy—two bodies lying still, lifeless, another clinging to life by a thread. Sirens cut through the silence, but they came too late for Michael Ellington Jr. and Jasmine.
They never stood a chance.
It was over in minutes, maybe less. Neighbors heard the screaming, then the gunshots—quick, successive, and jarring. Some froze. Others dialed 911 with trembling fingers. But when the police broke through the front door of the modest home on Cleoford Avenue, they weren’t met with confrontation. Only the echoes of what had happened.
Michael, 29, had always been described as a hard worker, a quiet man who kept to himself. Jasmine, bright and warm, had a smile that could light up any room. Their relationship, from the outside, seemed private. But privacy can often hide pain. And now, police say, it was domestic violence. The kind no one saw coming—or maybe the kind no one wanted to.
Inside the house, the living room was frozen in a moment of horror. Jasmine’s hand still clutched her phone, likely trying to make that final call. Michael lay beside her. Nearby, a third victim—name not released—was still breathing, though barely. Rushed to the hospital, their condition is listed as critical. They are the only thread left, the sole survivor of whatever terrible sequence played out behind closed doors.
No one has been arrested. Not yet. The investigation is ongoing, but so far, all that’s left behind is grief and silence. Family members arrived not long after. The cries of a mother who lost her son mingled with the sobs of a sister who lost her best friend. Tears fell onto the sidewalk like rain as yellow tape fluttered in the morning breeze. Reporters kept their distance, lenses zoomed in from behind patrol cars.
Inside the house, the walls still hold the story. The overturned chair, the shattered glass on the floor, the unanswered questions. What happened in those final moments? What were the last words spoken, the last thoughts held? Did they know it was the end?
Domestic violence often wears a mask. It hides in the polite nods at the grocery store, the smiling selfies on social media, the “we’re doing fine” at family gatherings. But behind some doors, there’s pain. Control. Fear. And sometimes, like it did on Cleoford Avenue, it explodes without warning.
Now, this street joins the growing list of neighborhoods touched by a tragedy that could have been prevented. Another vigil will be held, another call for change. Friends will write heartfelt posts. Community leaders will speak. Advocates will remind us that help is out there, that signs can be spotted, that lives can be saved.
But for Michael Ellington Jr. and Jasmine, the clock has stopped. Their stories, their dreams, their voices—silenced in a place that should have been safe.
And somewhere, a hospital monitor beeps steadily, keeping rhythm with the breath of the only one left to tell what happened.
Until then, there are no answers. Just grief. And silence.
