So what are we supposed to do? Cower in corners and look for emergency exits? When hero and enemy are armed with the same weapon, how do we determine who is who? When the people that are supposed to be heroes turn out to be enemies, how do we determine who to trust? The people meant to protect only care about protecting their money or preserving their power. There is nothing my friends or my baby sister or Ican do to avoid this.
A cart full of groceries, cleaning supplies and clothes, a mundane task. A simple Saturday afternoon, suddenly turned to chaos, ricocheting screams and explosions, popping ears, popping hearts, destroying families. Destroying homes.
A dark night club. Drinks condensating on the bar. Loud music and laughter drowned out by sudden screams and innocent people trampling toward an exit, rushing to the bathroom, to cower in a stall, ringing ears and scattered breaths, desperate texts to loved ones, desperate pleas for help.
The sound of chalk on the board suddenly stops. Thirty terrified silent eyes watching the locked door, listening, still, crowded under desks or in closets. The lone choked cry of a horror-struck child. Young lives ripped away in the place they were supposed to grow.
Guns don’t kill people. People kill people. People use guns to kill people. So what are we supposed to do? My sister and I are at a concert, my favorite band, a stage I’ve stood before one hundred times, a venue where I’ve felt so much joy, suddenly a warzone or an execution. She pulls me out of the crowd, her grip on my hand piercing my soul, I feel like the fear in her eyes like ice.
We cannot enjoy fireworks anymore.
Lindsay Dress is a student at West Chester University. LD887897@wcupa.edu