I touched the roughen ridge around my eye for the tenth time in the same amount of minutes. I put my hand underneath my butt to stop myself from that repetitive motion.
I am afraid I will turn into my old golden lab who licked his paw raw as the thunder storm occurred overhead. I should have joined him under the bed. I need to get away from the television, but I can’t stop watching.
I must stay with them whether they know or not. I can’t bear to let them go through it alone. How many times will the television capture me with its coverage of the next mass shooting? Why else would I have these marks but to bear witness to those who come after us? Whether we show visible marks, all of us are scared underneath.
I remember the old catechism that pictured mortal sin as a milk bottle painted black. And the minor sins, like lying, could be a bottle of milk with black spots. We were really young when we thought that picture made sense to us. But in those days, the nuns taught us to say, “Yes, Father” and then repeat the answer drilled into us. All this so we could move on and get the okay to receive our First Communion and wear those white fluffy dresses and their white netting head bands, our baby veils. I was so glad that it never covered my face. I was so pretty then with a clear forehead, so smooth and innocent. I remember giggling with my friends every day. I don’t remember the last time I laughed.
Laughing makes me feel guilty. I feel unclean and dirty. I taste the dust on the floor underneath the pew. I feel my friend laying on top of me. There wasn’t enough room for either of us with the kneeler in the way. How could we hide? There were no closets in the church, not like in our classroom. The only thing we could do was to squish together in and around the kneelers. I felt a shudder after the loud noise. My friend got hit. She saved me. I only had a gunpowder burn on my forehead. Evie got better and learned to walk again. Now no one can see what she feels like when the shooting happens again. She looks so normal.
They stop talking when they see my face and its reminder of what happened in our town. I got a reprieve. They look at my face and see me as a victim. But when Evie goes by, they don’t stop talking about the news. She is supposed to pretend she’s over it. But neither of us are over it. Why are they? Why were their thoughts and prayers so brief? Why is it so easy for them to get over it and forget?
My hand has found its way again rubbing the ridge around my eye. Ten more children were shot today in a school today, only two died. America calmly watches this news on television. Why aren’t they rubbed raw like me?
thoughts keeping me awake 