Pulling the Trigger
It was three years ago today that we just happened to take the same bus, and a short time later, I shot you in the chest. I was with my family, taking a bus ride to the library, thinking about Chocolati dark chocolate truffles, and you were with a friend. My family and I got off the bus because you were being a jerk to us—whether it was because we are female, because we are lesbian, because we are nothing more than a family of fags to you, the "why" really doesn't matter. I thought you stayed on the bus. But I heard you scream "bitch" as I stood at a stoplight, and so I turned around, and you were running toward me. I warned you that I was armed, and you didn't want to listen. I remember the muffled sound of my gun going off and your shoulders curling in from the impact. I remember us looking at each other and your face shifting from rage to utter fear as you struggled to draw in a breath but couldn't. You went down to the ground so slowly, and we kept eye contact the whole time. The ambulance whisked you away to Harborview, and I was whisked away in a police cruiser. I sat in isolation all weekend, alone, hoping my wife and kids were safe, hoping that you were not dead. Before court on Monday morning, the woman in the cell next to me told me that the news had just stated you were alive. I took a deep breath then cried—I was relieved and thankful that you survived. Please, stop attacking females. Meeting you changed me. Did it change you? I hope. Be safe, be well, cherish life—I will do the same.