Every step I took, every move I made, I felt like my lungs could’ve collapsed at any moment. I paced around the kitchen area, forgetting even how many circles I did around the kitchen island.

The boom of every footstep was loud enough to quite possibly break the hard lock I had on my anxiety. My breathing quickened, tears threatened to fall at any moment, and my chest began to cave in.

“If I stay here, they’ll all hear me.”

The monotonous circling around the kitchen island wasn’t going to cut it anymore. The mundane distractions I had sought after to try and forget about the boulder of fear hanging over my head had long stopped working. With a hand over my mouth and tears staining my cheeks, I took the urgency to climb the stairs faster than I ever had before.

I slammed the door shut behind me and cried.

A cry so powerful the next day my eyes were swollen and, I couldn’t breathe out of my nose.

A cry so forceful that I had to hum to myself in bed to try and calm down.

A cry so god damn awful that my brother heard from the room over.

I tried my best not to sob or whimper, but the pain was too much. The anguish of self-hate was overbearing. It had a tight grip on my heart. The purgatory that is to not loving yourself, not believing in yourself, and regretting your existence. It was a true hell to be stuck inside a mind with all those thoughts and to never have the courage to seek solace in a single person.

The worst part was not the crying. It was the silence.

I felt like if I spoke about it, there would be weight to my words and, all my worst fears would come true. All the terrifying truths I fought to push down would escape through my mouth freely.

I laid my head on my pillow and kept crying, hoping the tears would run dry eventually.

“Am I crazy?”

I was sitting on my bed, balled up with my knees to my chest, and humming to myself. Although it was calming, it isn’t the actions of someone doing too well.

Between sharp intakes of air and my throat threatening to close, I just couldn’t help but laugh.

Just like I always did, I needed to calm down and breathe, or at least something close to the semblance of a breath.

I removed my body from a protective position and just fell limp back into my mattress.

I started at the ceiling and just started to breathe.

Everything will be just fine if you take a second and breathe.

We’ve all been told to report to our local underground bunkers where food and supplies wait for us. I held on tight to my small rag doll mama had made for me the previous year for my birthday. The sky was painted this crimson red. The scent of sulfur threatened to invade my nose past the cotton rag Mama had tied around the bottom half of my face. Houses across the neighborhood boarded up and you could still hear the constant hammering ringing down the streets. I made sure to wave goodbye to every house I could see.

I do pray that the sun comes out soon. I miss running through the fields our house used to be nearby. Laying down in a bed of flowers and just let the sun beat on my exposed skin. Mama would always scream at me when I’d come home beet-red and burnt. She tells me that it’ll be a short while before I can run around and be free again. One of the last things she grabbed from the house was a rosary and she’d been clutching that pretty hard ever since we got here. Papa hasn’t said a word. He’s just been walking around like a zombie. Head held low and eyes like a deer in headlights. We all walked in unison toward what would eventually become our new home. I hope I’d be able to make new friends there. I could show off my betty doll!

~

They’ve all left me here. I’ve lost count of the days that have passed. My skin had become pale and flaccid. My nails had grown jagged and long, with dirt-caked underneath. I fear to open my mouth lest another tooth comes tumbling out. The clothes I came in here with had become rags after everything that had happened. Sadly, I had to burn my doll in the fire. Mama said we’d freeze to death if I didn’t. Maybe that fate is better than the life I’d been stuck with.

God has left us, or at least that’s what Mama kept rambling on about. She finally let go of that rosary once she got tired of waiting for food, just like the others. One believes in the lord until they’ve been dragged through the very depths of hell itself.

Papa did eventually speak, but I couldn’t understand him between his exasperated screams and howls. I think he pleaded for me to help but I just ran as fast as my calloused feet could take me.

I found shelter inside some empty shipment container at the end of the camp. I thought I was safe in there but Mama found me one day. Her eyes were dark, not a shimmer of light left. I think she held some pieces of Papa.

I never go to see the sun again.

livelier than ever before

with not much time left

she moves and wiggles

knowing he could emerge from behind

rope tied tight

wrists and ankles sore

prayers whispered softly

wishing for her savior, so divine

the end is near

here comes his menacing giggle

as the room got darker

deeper the knife dug into her spine

finger dipped in blood to draw squiggles

the entire floor covered in deplorable gore

Valentine’s Day of 2018 was supposed to be like any other Valentine’s Day. Couples hand in hand, kids giving each other love notes, confessing to your crush. These things were all on my mind that faithful day during my freshman year I was attending a High School in Miami, Florida and I was just starting to feel safe and assimilated at my new school. Later that afternoon when watching the news at home I learned of what happened at Parkland. Nickolas Cruz disguised himself as a student and was granted entry into his former school, Marjory Stoneman Douglas, where he proceeded to shoot several people with an AR-15 he purchased himself. 17 lives were lost that day. Teachers were killed. Students were killed. Several freshman students were killed. At that time I was barely 15 and I had never been more scared in my life to go to school the next day. I cried in my mother’s arm begging her not to leave me there.

After the shooting Florida schools began issuing IDs, all kids had to wear so no one would be able to sneak into a school as Cruz did. My school hired a personal police officer to stand guard outside 24/7 after we’d gotten a couple of threats over the phone. Although I wasn’t there that day and my fears and trauma could never amount to whatever the victims of this shooting felt, an impact was still everywhere. Something horrible happened on our turf and it just felt way too close to home. Students all over Florida began protesting. We had moments of silence, walkouts, signs made. We did everything we could to make our voices feel heard. Sadly, We realized no matter how many people lost their lives, no matter how many tears were shed, nobody was ever going to listen to a “little kid”.

I was made to write an essay about how stricter gun laws were necessary. Our language arts teacher asked us to include statistics and valid information to support the gun laws we mentioned. As I sat thinking about what I could write, I realized there was no need for statistics. The valid information was that people were dying. Mothers, fathers, children, were being shot dead. A 19-year-old with a history of mental disorders was able to buy a military-grade weapon but in this country, he couldn’t even purchase a beer. I stood in front of my class and read out my paper with statistics and all.

I desperately wanted to see some change. I wanted to be one of the voices who brought about the change for those who couldn’t speak up. I wanted to stomp up the steps of the white house and scream at the top of my lungs for gun reform. But who would have ever listened to a little girl who never touched a gun in her life? Those adults who clutch their precious assault rifles and automatic weapons and chalk up their use to safety and protection would never listen. Those adults in the White House who stay afloat through NRA funding would never ever listen. Those adults who say we kids don’t know anything about politics would never listen. We are just children in their eyes.

But I knew who listened. Alyssa, Scott, Martin, Aaron, Nicholas, Jamie, Chris, Luke, Cara, Gina, Joaquin, Alaina, Meadow, Helena, Alex, Carmen, and Peter all listened. They listened to gunshots flying through the air and into their bodies. All their classmates and co-workers listened. They listened to Nickolas stalk through the hallways and gun down their loved ones. Their parents listened. They listened to news reports confirm the death of their kids. All of them had to listen to something that could have easily been avoided.

I realized in order to bring real change, I had to make those adults listen to me. For the 17 who lost their lives. For the 17 families who lost a son or a daughter. For the numerous gun violence victims around the country. For a better tomorrow.