In the flickering glow of a bonfire meant for teenage dreams and carefree laughter, 18-year-old Kimber Mills uttered her last, desperate plea: “Don’t leave me.” Those three words, frozen in a seven-second clip from a bystander’s phone, have emerged as the gut-wrenching soundtrack to a tragedy that has gripped Alabama and beyond. Nearly a month after the shooting that stole her life, Kimber’s best friend, Jerrita Hollis, has come forward with the video — a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the chaos — revealing not just the horror of that night, but the unbreakable bond that defined their friendship.
On November 10, 2025, amid a sea of pink ribbons — Kimber’s favorite color — adorning trees and lampposts across Blount County, Jerrita Hollis sat down with WBRC for an exclusive interview. Trembling as she hit play on her phone, she unveiled the clip for the first time publicly: seven seconds of pandemonium at “The Pit,” a secluded wooded spot in Pinson known for high school bonfires. The video, timestamped 1:47 a.m. on October 20, shows Kimber, bloodied and gasping on the dew-kissed grass, clutching Jerrita’s hand as gunfire echoes and screams pierce the night. “It’s all I have left of her voice,” Hollis whispered, tears carving paths down her cheeks. “She was fighting so hard… and I couldn’t save her.”
The footage is as brief as it is brutal. It opens mid-mayhem: silhouettes scrambling in the firelight, a girl’s silhouette — Kimber’s — crumpling against a log as shots ring out. Jerrita’s voice, frantic and off-camera, yells, “Kimber! Stay with me!” The camera shakes violently, capturing Kimber’s wide blue eyes locking onto her friend, her cheer uniform torn and soaked crimson from wounds to her head and leg. For those agonizing seven seconds, Kimber’s lips move in a whisper, audible only after forensic audio enhancement by investigators: “Don’t… leave… me.” Then, a final squeeze of Jerrita’s fingers, and her hand goes limp as paramedics swarm in. The clip ends abruptly with Jerrita’s guttural sob: “No, no, please!”
Kimber Elizabeth Mills was the heartbeat of Cleveland High School — a senior with a megawatt smile, boundless energy, and a spirit that turned heads on the cheer squad and the track team. At 18, she was the girl who organized surprise birthday parades for underclassmen, baked cookies for stressed-out teachers, and dreamed of nursing scrubs at the University of Alabama come fall 2026. “She had this spunk, this fire,” her sister Ashley Mills told AL.com in the days after the shooting. “Kimber didn’t just cheer; she lifted everyone up.” Born and raised in the tight-knit Birmingham suburbs, Kimber grew up in a home filled with laughter, her parents’ antique shop a hub for family game nights. Jerrita, her best friend since middle school sleepovers, was like a sister — the duo inseparable, from matching pink phone cases to late-night drives belting out Taylor Swift.
October 20 started like any Saturday: Cleveland High’s homecoming buzz still lingering, Kimber and Jerrita piling into a pickup with a dozen friends for a bonfire at The Pit. Tucked off Palmerdale Road in eastern Jefferson County, the spot was a rite of passage — bonfires crackling under starlit pines, coolers of sodas, and playlists heavy on country anthems. Around midnight, as flames danced and stories flowed, an uninvited shadow slunk in: 27-year-old Steven Tyler Whitehead, a drifter with a rap sheet for DUIs and a grudge-fueled temper.
No one knew him. Ashley Mills later recounted to reporters how Whitehead approached one of Kimber’s girlfriends, slurring advances that reeked of cheap beer and entitlement. The friend rebuffed him, texting her boyfriend in a panic. What followed was a powder keg: the boyfriend and pals confronted Whitehead, fists flying in the dirt. Jerrita, ever the protector, jumped in to pull her friends back. “I saw him reaching for his waistband,” she told police in her initial statement. “Yelled for everyone to run.” But Whitehead drew a .38 revolver, firing wildly into the crowd. Four shots. Four lives shattered.
Kimber took the worst: one bullet grazing her temple, another shattering her femur. She collapsed near the fire pit, her cheer pom-poms abandoned yards away. Jerrita dropped beside her, pressing her hoodie against the head wound as blood pooled. That’s when the phone captured it — Jerrita’s free hand fumbling for her device, instinctively recording for help, for proof, for posterity. “I thought if I filmed, someone would believe how fast it happened,” she explained in the WBRC interview. “The police needed to see. But mostly… I just wanted to hold onto her a little longer.” In those seven seconds, amid the acrid smoke and wails, Kimber’s plea wasn’t just survival — it was a testament to their bond. Jerrita had been the one to hold her hand through first heartbreaks, braces unveilings, and that time Kimber twisted her ankle at regionals. “Don’t leave me,” Kimber gasped, knowing Jerrita would fight like hell to stay.
Sirens wailed in 12 minutes, airlifting Kimber to UAB Hospital in Birmingham. Jerrita rode in the ambulance’s tail, covered in her friend’s blood, whispering promises over the roar. At the ER, doctors fought for 48 hours: craniotomies, transfusions, ventilators beeping like accusatory clocks. Three others — including the boyfriend who’d sparked the brawl — survived with wounds to arms and torsos. Whitehead fled into the woods, only to be tackled by a good Samaritan two miles away, his gun still warm. Charged initially with three counts of attempted murder, the indictment ballooned to capital murder after Kimber’s death. Bond set at $2 million; he’s rotting in Jefferson County Jail, facing life or lethal injection.
By Tuesday, October 22, hope flickered out. Brain scans showed irreversible swelling; Kimber, an organ donor by choice, became a lifeline for strangers. At 7:08 p.m., as the family gathered around her bed, machines silenced. But Kimber’s legacy roared on. Doctors confirmed her heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys viable — tests run Monday morning sealing the gift. Her heart went to a 7-year-old boy in Atlanta, fighting congenital failure; her lungs to a cystic fibrosis patient in Memphis; her corneas restoring sight to two Alabamans. “She always said she’d give anything for a kid,” Ashley posted on Facebook, sharing a four-minute video of the “Honor Walk” — a solemn procession down UAB’s halls, hundreds in pink lining the path, clapping softly as Kimber’s gurney passed to the OR. Jerrita walked closest, clutching a teddy bear Kimber won at last year’s fair.
The Honor Walk video, which exploded online with millions of views, captured a community’s grief turned grace. Pink balloons bobbed; cheer teammates in uniforms formed a tunnel; even strangers like Michael Holmes, a Pit regular who’d witnessed the shooting, showed up. “Her final moments are stuck in my head,” Holmes told WVTM 13, voice cracking. “She fought. God, she fought.” GoFundMe poured in over $150,000, funding funerals and scholarships in her name. Cleveland High draped its field in pink for a vigil, Superintendent Rodney Green eulogizing: “Kimber’s smile and infectious personality will always be remembered.”
For Jerrita, the seven-second clip is both anchor and abyss. Now 18 and taking a gap year to grieve, she’s channeled pain into purpose — speaking at anti-violence assemblies, advocating for bystander training in schools. “That video? It’s not just evidence,” she said, pausing the playback on Kimber’s face, frozen in determination. “It’s her last ask. And I’ll never leave her memory.” The two had inked friendship bracelets months prior: “Ride or Die,” Kimber’s in pink cursive. Jerrita wears hers daily, a talisman against the nightmares.
As November 12, 2025, marks three weeks since the shots, Pinson heals in hues of rose. Pink bows flutter from porches, proceeds to victim funds; a mural at The Pit — now off-limits — depicts Kimber mid-cheer, pom-poms aloft. Whitehead’s trial looms in 2026, prosecutors vowing the video as centerpiece: “Seven seconds of hell that demand justice.” Ashley, sifting through Kimber’s UA acceptance letter, clings to her sister’s words: “Even gone, she’s saving lives.”
Kimber Mills didn’t just die at a bonfire; she ignited a movement. From a seven-second scream into silence, her plea echoes: Don’t leave. Don’t forget. In Jerrita’s trembling hand, that clip isn’t the end — it’s the spark. A reminder that in the darkest woods, one girl’s fight can light the way for countless others. Rest easy, Kimber. Your best friend — and a grateful world — is right here.
