All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
In My Shoes
It doesn’t matter who you are, where you are from, what you stand for, what gender you are, your religion, your race, your gender, because I am writing this to one single address. And if you are reading this, you are included in that address, because you are alive.
I was at home that night, enjoying a night with my family. It was one of those nights that I could ‘let my hair down’ throw on sweats and just relax. It was a calm, quiet, enjoyable night in Somerville. I had school coming up and I needed to enjoy my last few nights before it started. I did just that.
I did my usual ritual before I went to my room. Though, when you have five others in the house besides yourself, it is hard to get to bed at a reasonable time. I slept in the same room as Nitra, my favorite nine-year-old in the world. As I slowly let my eyes down, I could not help but smile at what my life was. I knew it was hard, and there were of course trials. But, I had joy. I wasn’t just a measly ‘happy’ or satisfied, because being happy is more like overlooking the issues in your life; whereas joy is knowing them, fighting against them, but still holding your head up proud.
I fell asleep and the dream was the strangest of dreams. My mother was in a fight with her ex. That he had come to our house. “Why don’t you just leave my wife alone?!” shouted the man.
My mother quickly answered, “Why don’t you just leave my house?!”
In a split second the man somehow had managed to pull out a hammer. Where did he get a hammer? I couldn’t have helped asking myself. But that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he brought the hammer down on my mom, and with no slight hesitation withdrew a six inch blade from his jacket and stabbed her maliciously. She was dead.
My dream went black from there and all I could see was death. I was crying, or was I? All I knew is that in my dream, my mother had died, and I couldn’t wake up. But after what felt like an eternity, I came to or my dream had returned to me – which of the two I still do not know. Then I saw him again. He was traveling upstairs. He hesitated and turned towards my door. He took a step towards it and reached his hand out towards the handle and then paused and said something under his breath. I wish I knew what he said, more than anything else. Was he asking for forgiveness? Was he asking why he was doing this? Or was he laughing to himself? I have no idea to what it may be, but whatever it was, it didn’t stop him. He grabbed the handle and turned it. He walked towards me, which was strange because now I was not merely a spectator, but I felt as though I was in my body again. I could see everything happening but couldn’t move. He reached into his pants and grabbed out the same hammer that he had used to kill my mother. My heart was beating faster than ever even though this was all just dream. It was a dream right? As he brought the hammer down it smashed me in the head. I felt nothing. But with the feeling of nothing, I came to. I was dreaming.
However, the dream was not far from the truth. When I woke, I woke to pistol at my head. The bullet reached my brain before the sound even touched my ears. Was I truly dead? Had I really just died? I asked myself, because all of a sudden I was spectating this horrible nightmare once again.
I was at an omnipotent point of view. I watched him empty at the least half of a dozen bullets in to my body. Yet, I felt no pain. Initially I was not angry at the man. But when I saw him walk over to Nitra, I lost all emotions. I felt like running and screaming. I felt like taking the knife out from his hands and stabbing him until he was so slashed and battered his own mother could not recognize him, but I couldn’t. I felt as though some even more powerful force than myself was holding me back and forcing me to watch every single move he made; the slow incline of the blade to the back of his head and then the sudden, violent dropping of the blade on to the innocent girl’s chest. Purple and red covered the blade as he slowly withdrew it from her chest. She too was dead.
Then, the two youngest in the house walked in to the room. They were probably just curious to why it was so loud. They didn’t know what was happening, they were only five and six. Once again, I was forced to watch the man take the blade to their small bodies. How easily can a six inch blade kill someone so small… It seemed to have happened in an instant, everyone in the house was dead.
All was black again, and I couldn’t see anything, feel anything, hear anything, or smell anything. I was alone. I was dead. But shortly after the realization, he entered our house again with a five gallon can of gasoline. After he killed us, he still had the nerve to show no respect to our bodies as he smothered us with gas. Shortly after he set us up in flames, and everything we once knew was gone. We were dust. Our clothes were dust. Our house was dust. Our money was dust. But, the biggest of them all, our futures were dust. We were gone. We were no longer of this world. We were gone.
Now as I said before, it doesn’t matter who you are. If you are alive, this was written to you. I am now dead. I was only sixteen years old and I lost everything I ever knew in a single night. I lost my mother, my family, my house, my life. I watch as life passes by and I see how many people are defending these dreadful murderers and it makes me sick. He took everything from me, and you think he deserves to live? What did he do to deserve to live? It’s the same question as what did I do to deserve to die?
If you are reading this, don’t only put yourselves in the killer’s shoes. Don’t only say, “if I were him I wouldn’t want to be executed.” How about you put yourself in my shoes? Would you still want the man to live? He didn’t just take my life, he stole it.