This is Mahithi. This my tribute to all those impacted by gun violence and hope it will stop one day.
It was a normal Wednesday morning.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
A neighborhood arose, street lights glistened in the gleaming sun.
A house was awoken from its slumber, loud and lively.
A mom packed her kid’s lunch, a pb&j.
A kid rolled out of bed dreading tests, yearning rest.
A dad told his kid “Love ya, kiddo”.
As he cheerfully dropped his kid off at an inviting school.
A kid walked the dimmed white halls.
A kid had a husky gray backpack slumped on a sore shoulder.
A kid stumbled across the checkered floors.
A kid stopped at a dark navy locker.
A kid smiled kindly at a stranger who seemed resentful.
A kid slammed a locker and ran to class.
A kid got a tardy because he had no pass.
T
A kid slumped down in a grim crimson chair.
A kid listened to a teacher who gave a sharp glare.
A kid wrote down messy notes, about this turtle and some hare.
A kid was stalling to do work.
A kid hoped that this torture would end.
A kid smiled at the ringing bell and hopped happily to the next period.
A kid was bored, playing with a silver-lined pen.
A kid gave a mischievous grin to a friend.
A kid saw a teacher sigh, looking disappointed.
A kid saw a teacher's mouth gape and face shift to despair.
A kid heard a grotesque, piercing scream and a blaring announcement.
A kid heard thundering footsteps and wailing voices.
A kid saw a friend's bright amber shirt soak a deep shade of red.
A kid saw the stranger with once innocent eyes.
A kid heard a menacing “goodbye”.
A kid heard one last noise before it turned pitch black, a final chill traveled down a kid’s back.
“BOOM.”
A kid dropped dead.
It is a normal Wednesday morning.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
A neighborhood is devastated questioning what if.
A house is soundless. No more chatter. No more laughter.
A mom opens her kid's untouched lunch, tears silently streaming like her voice that was silenced.
A kid, eighteen more peers, and two teachers, who had their whole lives left, were laid to rest.
A dad screams at officials, begging, for an answer, wanting to say one more “Love ya. kiddo” pleading “Please, one more.”
As he left lifelessly, alone, from an uninviting school.
This is the reality for A kid and countless families.
“We could be next” is what keeps repeating.
No help in sight is what we all are seeing.
We try speaking there is no one hearing.
All that is there is to keep believing.
That the future is left for bleeding.
There is no sign of us healing.
The fear we have is creeping.
This scene is reenacting.
All of this affliction.
With no reaction.
Change is absent.
In this place.
Of conflict.
Now guess.
Which
Country?
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