It was only a protest. We have those all the time. It seems the government is always doing something to deceive us. I tried to live in positive although there was so much hate all around me. Hate for the dictatorship. Hate for the people. Personal gain seemed all that mattered. It was only a protest but it was my last. I heard the votes had been rigged. I heard that we should fight for our democracy. Supporting the cause seemed only right. So I lined up with the rest of my peers surrounded in the “peaceful” protest. And it was peaceful until they sent their men out to break it up, but we wouldn’t. I guess that’s when I should have left, but I didn’t. I was so enticed by all of the noise and the power of the people and in their words. I guess you could say I was excited; hopeful even for change. That was until I heard a single shot being fired. My initial thought was “I have to get out of here” but I couldn’t move. I could barely breathe. That’s when everyone around me began screaming that I had been shot. I looked down at my own bloodstained shirt and began to fall. Why? Why out of all the people I had been shot? I had no answer. I lay down while my music instructor begged me to stay alive and be strong. I wanted to... just for him. But I felt myself going. Tears ran down his face. Never have I seen him cry until that day. Blood seemed to be everywhere. It came from my mouth, nose, and chest. A man that I hadn’t even known cried for me to keep my eyes open. I didn’t die until in a car to a hospital. The man who murdered me was never prosecuted. Only because he said “I didn’t mean to kill her”. My mourners became illegal traitors in the eyes of the government. So my tombstone was removed and my grave shot at. This is my story. It is the story of a woman who died for the fight for her democracy. My face is everywhere. Even in America. My story lives on in the hearts that I have touched with my death. In hopes that no one will be afraid to fight for what they really want in this world. I wasn’t.