Streets are All the Same
Walking along the sidewalk with my notebook in hand, I dream of days to come in wonder of if they will be there. I have a disease, it’s infectious and likes to prey on kids, and it’s called Depression. I stop to look at trees only to see the sun shining and scoff at the sight. I turn away in hopes something more ‘cheerful’ will be brought into my eyes. To my discomfort I see smaller children than myself at 13 happily crossing the street as a bus driver waves them across. Cheery little things. No cares, no realization of what the world truly is and not a trickle of blood seen on their hands. Not that there would be. They are innocent, as was I, until that one night when my world changed. I became detached after that, forced to meet new people and make new friends. I wanted my old friends and my old family, but it seemed they didn’t want me anymore. I’m forced to live by my own will and make my own way. I continue, averting my eyes from the smiling faces of the joyed and look to the ground in hopes that somehow it will bring me more comfort than any amount of people ever could, no matter if there was blood or not.
That night, that dreadful night, I reflect on it as I walk to school, every morning I do this. It’s not exactly comforting but it’s not exactly warring either. I can’t explain the feeling. I guess it could be familiar in a way. As for the night, it would bring me comfort if it was happily spent, but I’m cursed. My brother was playing in the street, my friends laughing around me as I listened and my parents sitting on the porch as they watched us swing on the tire swing. The big wheel my brother had, his name was Henry, made this plastic crunching sound against the pavement as all the chatter of girls from my view clouded out the sound of a car. You see I was involved in some rough things, knowing people who I shouldn’t have known and such. Recently people were hearing of drive-by warnings and threats due to gang reorganization. I wasn’t afraid of the gang but I knew some of their enemies. I guess that’s why I was targeted. Just over the sound of my brother’s big wheel I could hear a car coming and, not to my surprise, a car drove by. Rather slowly. I watched it leave around the corner then heard a screech of tires and the car could be heard speeding back towards us. It slowed slightly and before I could react gunshots were fired at us. Me. I was horrified! This wasn’t supposed to happen here! It wasn’t the city, it was a nice suburban area, and gangs weren’t supposed to fire guns at innocents but should shoot at each other!
I fell from my turn on the tire swing and put my hands on my head as I heard screams and gunshots. Those were noises you don’t want to hear at the same time. A screech was heard and the firing stopped then I looked up. I couldn’t see anyone. They were all gone. No one on the porch or around me and then I looked to my brother in the street. He lay there still and silent. Not noisy like little kids were, just there. I could feel tears well up in my eyes and my nose tingled as I pushed myself up. The adrenaline of the abrupt action caused me not to feel my feet thumping across the ground. I tripped a few times from the numbness and finally found myself next to my brother, crawling to his side and trying to wake him up. Here I was a small 10 year old, cradling my dying brother in my arms. He was only 6! How could they do this? He wasn’t shot but he was crushed from the impact of the car. His big wheel lay flattened and dismembered on the road and I could hear police coming now from their sirens. My next notion was to leave him and find the rest of my party. My first priority was to my parents on the porch and as I stumbled to them tears streamed down my face. I could see bullet holes and shattered glass all along the front of the house. This didn’t look good.
Their bodies were crumbled on the porch like a heap of clothes. How could this be happening to me? I sank down to my knees and cried. Here, my parents were lying dead on the porch my brother took his first steps on. And he was dead too. I couldn’t hear over my silent sobs. My ears were ringing. No, that’s the siren.
A police car pulled up and jumped out. His first reaction was taking out his gun and searching the area. When he came across me he just looked at my face then checked my parents bodies. Once he knew they were dead he came back to me and put his hand on my shoulder while he holstered his gun. His words were silent to me. I couldn’t hear him but I knew what he would have been saying. ‘It’ll be okay. Just go sit in the squad car and warm up.’ I hadn’t realized that it was cold now. The night had brought upon the chill of its depth. I did as he said. He led me to the car with his hand on my shoulder and told me to watch my head as I got in. I was tired now and couldn’t even imagine what happened to my friends. Since they didn’t come console me before the cop got there, the only guess I could have was they were shot too.
We were just talking about boys! Is that a sin? Am I being punished for something I don’t remember doing? The car was warm but my skin refused to recognize the warmth. I was numb to the world. This is how it began.
Months later I was being processed through foster homes and school. No one would want to take in a depressed 11-year-old, not even my far relatives. I turned 11 on January 13th. It wasn’t as happy a day as it could be. The policemen tried to cheer me up with a party but it didn’t work. I tried to act happy but that wouldn’t work either. After two years of switching schools and zip codes I ended up in this neck of the woods.
Screw suburban streets. They’re all the same.