I wake up to what sounds like repetitive lightning strikes. I check my clock; it’s 1:30 in the morning. I look out my window to see what the noise is. I can’t see very well, but who knows what it could be. It’s Mardi Gras. It’s funny seeing all the people passed out drunk, in what looks like spilled wine on the pavement. I lay back down in my bed and I start thinking about what it could be. It wasn’t supposed to rain and it sure didn’t look like it had. Just as I get comfy, I hear the front door open, then it is slammed shut.

What could that be? I think to myself, as I get up and grab my metal baseball bat. This is the bat I had won the tournament with, now it’s going to help me stop an intruder. I hide on the side of my door; footsteps are smashing down the hallway to my room. I get the bat into a ready position, I am just about to swing, when the door opens and it’s my dad.
“Get into the attic now,” he yells with authority and fear in his voice. I take note that he’s in his pajamas which means he hasn’t had time to get dressed. He also has his shiny judge with him that he only uses in a time of emergency.
“You're the boss man,” I say. I’m questioning the extent of what’s going on. I know that this is not a storm. I pull the latch to get up to the attic, I pull the ladder down and climb up. I’m about to ask my dad what’s going on, but it’s too late. He closes the little “secret” door and I hear him walking around. The attic is a fascinating place. I used to hang out up here during the summer. I crawl over to the window that shows our front yard and our neighbors house. I hear more “lightning strikes,” but now I know what that noise really is, their gun shots. I look down at the lawn and count five dead people in the street. How have the cops not come yet I think to myself angrily. I crawl over to a folding lawn chair and set it up in front of the window, Now all I need is popcorn and I can watch my neighbors get massacred like some twisted movie, I think to myself chuckling like some sick freak. I peer back out the window and see my neighbor who lives across the street, rush outside with his family trying to make it to his car. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! I watch my neighbors get slaughtered in front of their house. Mr. Johnson, his wife and two kids seven and five now lay dead on their front lawn.

I never thought about looking for the shooter till I see my dad creep out of the front of my house. Now my heart really starts pumping. I can finally see the shooter. It’s my nextdoor neighbor, Mr.Brady. I honestly can’t say that it surprised me. He served in Vietnam and has frequent flash back and I’m pretty sure he has PTSD. My dad and Mr. Brady just look at each other and not a word is spoken. This goes on for about thirty seconds. I can start to hear sirens, thank god. Not much later a heavily armed S.W.A.T team accompanied by five police cars are on both sides of the street.

“Put your weapon down!” screams one of the S.W.A.T men. He seems pretty tired, they all do, I mean, who is there to blame It’s 2:15 in the morning.

Mr. Brady screams something but I can’t hear what. He points his gun at an officer and is swarmed with bullets coming from both sides. Once they stop shooting, I can get a good look at him. He looks like a human rag doll full of bullet holes.

Two weeks later

Almost everyone that lives on my street is moving, including us. After the massacre, no one wants to live here, especially with it nicknamed Murder Street. That’s what the news called it, and the name stuck, and everyone calls it that now. My dad and I are leaving in three hours. We’re going to live with my aunt in Texas. I guess this is goodbye Murder Street. I’m not gonna miss you.