This story is dedicated to the memory of all those who have died in senseless shootings — and to those who have survived and are scarred for life:
My name is Jessica. I am 16 years old. Too young to die, yet here I am on the razor’s edge between life and death, huddled under a desk at school, bleeding out while a boy sprays bullets around the room. Too young to die, yet maybe not.
How did I get here? Today started out as a normal day. It’s the week before final exams and everyone is on edge. On the bus, the usual flirting going on, the usual chatter. We’re all nervous about finals yet excited for summer. I sit next to my best friend Cindy and we make plans for the weekend. Ordinary stuff. She’s having a party to celebrate… something.
We’re in history class. It’s just a typical day. I raise my hand to answer a question and hear a popping sound coming from the hallway. “Everyone down!” shouts Mr. Conway, but it is too late. A boy had already burst into the room shooting, and I stare in shock at my shattered arm. It should hurt but I feel nothing. I had just wanted to answer a question… and now my arm is gone.
Too young to die. I glance around the room and momentarily make eye contact with Cindy. She just shakes her head, and I feel the life slowly ebbing out of my body. I squeeze my eyes closed as the pain in my arm suddenly surges to life. There is a brief scuffle, more shots, then he is down, tackled by some other students. I am so numb that I cannot move, though I can see the gun-boy lying on the floor, pinned by 3 other students. ‘Gunman’ seems like such a wrong term as he is so young. I want to scream at him, but nothing comes out of my terrified mouth. “You stole my life! I have a mom, a dad, a younger brother! Did you get him too? Why? Why did you do this? What did I ever do to you? Who made you the judge and jury of my life? I don’t even KNOW you! And I am too young to die!”
I am angry and terrified and sad and hurt. Not ready to go. I have my whole life ahead of me! I have hopes and dreams! I’m going to be a scientist. At least that’s what I thought this morning…
Mom, Dad, Jason, I’m sorry for anything I ever did to hurt you, for every bad thing I ever said. I don’t want to go yet I can’t hold on any longer.
Who else will remember me besides my family? Will the Universe weep for me? Do I remember the names of any kids shot at other schools in the past? That’s sad but it would never happen here. That’s what I always thought. Yet now I, too, am a victim and I am too young to die. They all were. WE all were! How many more children need to be shot before the country comes to its senses. Will this ever end?
Today may very well be the end for me, but what about everyone else? As I slip away, I silently weep for myself, for my family, for my friends and for the future that I will never have. And I weep for a country that is paralyzed by fear.
My spirit hovers by the hospital for a while. I see my family gathered around, and I see my brother. Thankfully, he is okay, at least physically. This will be part of his future as well. Perhaps he will be the one to finally put an end to all this insanity. I would move mountains to help him, but I have no power to do that. I am but a breath of air now, a memory. I didn’t live long enough to realize my dreams. Will others be able to do that for me? If I could be granted a dying wish, it would be this: that no one — ever — goes through anything like this again.
My name was Jessica. I was 16 years old.
