Putt.
Putt. Putt. Putt. Putt. Putt.
I jump off my bed and flatten myself on the floor. My heart is racing.
Bump. Bump. Bump.
Fear consumes me, consumes us. We act then. The light in the living room is switched off. The TV too. The house, which was full of life just a few seconds ago, is dead silent. No one moves, then the dog is barking at the window.
"I'm on the floor." I tell my dad because I know he is worried.
My bed is right next to both the windows in my room. It high, too. This doesn't sit well with either of my parents. I know they hate this, we all do.
It's late, or early, whatever you think three AM is. We had spent all night decorating the house for Christmas. Now mom and dad are watching a movie, my sister is in her room doing whatever she does, and I'm in my room writing.
None of us really know the time. Some days it seems to flow differently for us. Like tonight. It would have continued this way if we hadn't heard them.
The gunshots.
They were too close, so of course we did. I heard them the loudest, my room silent except for the click of my keyboard.
Click. Click. Click.
Down in the basement with her music playing, my sister hadn't heard them at all. In the living room, they were just barely heard over the sound of the movie.
We are all freaked out. A little scared. Dad is tired, tired of living in this house, no, the neighborhood. He’s tired of living with the worry that one day one of us will get hurt. Mom hates that this happens a lot. Every other week, something happens. A hit and run, a drive by, a police involved shooting, etc. My sister just wants to move. Me, I just hope and pray that my family doesn't get hurt, that no one gets hurt.
My dad says to sleep on the floor. But I don't want to sleep in my room, so I lay on the couch. I stay low as directed and write for another hour or so. It calms me, clears my head. It's my own way to get fresh air.
I'm tired. But I can't stop thinking about gunshots. I can't stop thinking about how they sound. In stories and movies it's always a bang.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
In real life they don't sound like a bang at all. It's a sharp, metallic, putt sound. It's louder too. Scarier, they are always scarier. Maybe that's because they are real.
I wish it was a movie. That the sound I heard was a bang, instead of a putt. That way I could sleep. I know though, that it was real. I can still hear them, in my head. So, instead of sleeping, because that won't happen, I write this. Hoping, wishing, wanting, to hear anything else. I don't, and I know I'll fall asleep with the sound of the gunshots as a lullaby.
Putt.
Putt. Putt. Putt. Putt. Putt.
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