What I Think After a Shooting
Every time there’s a shooting, which is every damn day, my mind has these lingering thoughts of, well, if this happens to me, I’ll have to make sure I’m super observant of details to help out the police. Oh, well, if, when, this happens to me, I’ll play dead so I’m left alone. When this happens to me, these are the people I’ll text first, these are the props I’ll use to barricade myself in with, these are the exits I’ll look for, the faces I’ll put on, the conversations I’ll have with the shooter if he talks to me, this is the funeral I’ll have, and hopefully people don’t just wear black and there’s good food, and hopefully people are kind to my parents, hopefully they don’t fixate on what kind of pain I was in. And well, I can already see the president’s face as he talks to the press, his hair all gray, the anger in his eyes, and will it affect gun control, no, it won’t, not at all, literally nothing could, and will there be conversations about, huh, almost all of these shooters are disillusioned males, no, no there won’t be, but OK, sure, just keep swimming, let’s just keep posting stories about Drumpf and Kim Kardashian’s latest butt selfie, and on we go, and it’s sickening how banal these thoughts are, how they echo in my mind like Muzak at the mall, how I dream about shootings, talk to my therapist about them, how I constantly worry about guns on the subway, people who seem agitated, how I tense up at parades, at concerts, at movies, in restaurants, on streets, how I’m really not supposed to give in to these fears at all, and mostly I don’t, but oh, wouldn’t it be nice to have no guns? What would that world look like? What would my thoughts be then?