I woke up this morning to the blaring roars of police sirens. They were outside, not immediately outside my house, but somewhere in the city. Somewhere close enough to hear. Too close.
Everything was pitch black as I slowly turned the doorknob and slipped it open, trying my best not to make a sound. The door opened an inch, and I pressed my face to the crack, listening and looking for any signs of life or noise. My hands trembled with my extreme efforts to be silent.
It had just gotten dark, no more than thirty minutes ago. I was driving home from a friend’s house and enjoying the city’s dusky scenery on the way. Off in the distance, I could see a large fire. I joked to myself, “That better not be my house.”
I was walking into Wal-Mart on a hot, weekday afternoon. The old lady at the front door cheerfully greeted me as I rushed by towards the bathroom. In the small distance between the front door and the restrooms, glances around Wal-Mart told me it was quite busy today. A minute later, as I was washing my hands, I heard a loud boom and several screams. The boom repeated itself and I ran to the door of the bathroom and looked out. Over by Register 14 there was a man with a rifle. My heart jumped a few beats as I stood there, mesmerized.