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Fiona Firestorm

My Protest


So a few weeks ago, after waking up from some particularly nasty nightmares, I wrote this lovely little piece. And by lovely, I mean angry and terrified. I promise I'll start back with the more cheerful posts soon. So, here goes nothing. Feel free to post comments below.


I miss the days when the scariest thing you could watch at night was reruns of the twilight zone, not the nightly news. When hugging my little sister before she went to school was simply a “see you later” and not a “just in case I don’t see you again”. I miss the days when I didn’t walk into a room and start counting exits. Just in case. I miss the days before shooter drills. Sitting against the wall of the auditorium in fearful silence, calculating exactly how many grade school kids I could cover with my body. Just in case.


You know, a week ago a school tour came to my workplace. Somebody opened one of those plastic cake covers outside while the kids were playing a game and you want to know what I heard? I heard gunshots and screams of children. My sister and I know what a gunshot sounds like. But in that split second, she looked at me, her eyes asking me “Are we going to die today?”


Do you know what it’s like, seeing that look in your sister’s eyes? Trying to reassure her that it’s fine. It isn’t a gun. It’ll be okay, I promise. Then to spend the rest of the day wondering, “but what if it had been?” Wondering if this will be the day you get a call, and she isn’t coming home. Do you know how hard it is, knowing she’s wondering it too?


It’s so far away, they say. The adults quietly thinking “oh, it couldn’t happen to us. It couldn’t happen here.” And the kids thinking “oh yes, oh yes it could.” It all seems so terrible, but so far away, until it happens at Reynolds. And suddenly it’s right across the street, staring you in the eyes. And you hug your little sister just a little closer, praying “not today. Please, not today.” I miss when the walls of the grainary were a nice soundblock, and not an obstruction from seeing any possible threats. When the news anchor talking about the shooting in texas would have been a horrible tragedy of unspeakable proportion. Instead of a 5 minute piece before talking about the new celebrities dresses.


I miss the days when I practice my knife throwing for fun. Instead of just in case. Just in case I had to stop someone. The days when I wasn’t researching how many bullets I could withstand and where, so I could get to the shooter and take them down. When the knife in my apron pocket was just for cutting string, and not something to grip when a strange man enters my workplace.


This was going to be a poem. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fit it into poetic verse. It’s to raw, too real, from waking up in the morning wondering if today is the day I die. Writing out my will, imagining what I would say on my deathbed. Not daring to imagine if it wasn’t me who died. I’m begging you. The government. The world. Do something to protect us. Because I don’t want my school being one of the “unlucky” ones. I don’t want my sister to be one of the heroic ones. I don’t want her to be a beautiful, sacrificial memory. I want her to be alive. Please, please protect us. Because we can’t protect ourselves from this.

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