Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.
“Oh yeah right!”
That was my mother’s scoffing reaction when I told her that I am not traumatized by the events that took place Wednesday night.
I stared at her quite seriously and asked, “Why don’t you believe that? I’m honestly not.”
The fleeting moments when I felt the urge to cry was after we made it over the hills and were standing in the road by the cop car, barefoot and covered in dirt and sweat. And most of that need to cry was remembering how terrorized Anamarie was and knowing how badly this would effect her.
Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), I grew up in a bad neighborhood. Rachel and I took walks by ourselves and more than once had to escape down an alley and hide from guys who decided that they’d chase us when we ignored them. We lived on a block with a bar at the end of it. Gangs were everywhere. There were shootings in broad daylight. We couldn’t have been more then seven or eight when a group of guys in a dirt brown Caprice (or similar big, boxy car from 80’s) pulled up to the curb and they pointed a gun at us and our friend Lisa. It was a summer afternoon, we were playing on the sidewalk in front of Lisa’s house, which was only a few houses down from where we lived.
I always expected something bad to happen. I was always wary and cautious and I never trusted anyone. That’s why I don’t talk to my neighbors now—why I go out of my way to avoid them. It’s known that I have big, scary dogs and I don’t keep a set schedule, my alarm is always set. I always leave my blinds down and windows locked.
We heard gunshots most nights of the week. I remember being up late one night (except I stay up late every night—always have) and laying underneath the window on the 2nd floor I heard some guys arguing. They were by the bar—no surprise. Gangbangers, too. I had the cordless phone on the window sill for whatever reason. I listened as rain started to fall softly that night and the fight escalated. Without trees or other buildings to muffle the sound from a few doors down I could hear every kick and punch they landed on the poor guy. I watched, squinting through the dark, as they knocked him down and picked him back up by the baggy white t-shirt he was wearing.
I picked up the phone but didn’t dial 911. Within a minute I saw a cop car drive down the street. The guys scattered and disappeared.
Wednesday night wasn’t one of those situations where I would ever think “Oh My God I can’t believe this is happening—this sort of thing never happens in real life!” I’m more surprised I haven’t been in worse situations before now—and thank God I haven’t.
But now I’m going to get a conceal and carry license, buy a gun, and go to the shooting range. If Adam, Rachel and I had all been carrying, we wouldn’t have hesitated to be the first ones to draw on the fucks when they walked up to us. I sure as hell would’ve loved to shoot one of the bastards. I can’t even think about what would’ve happened if they’d shot one of us.
So, no, Wednesday didn’t scare me and I’m not scarred for life from it. It just made me realize how vulnerable we were and we shouldn’t have been. Thank God I don’t still live in Chicago—highest murder rate, strictest gun laws. No thanks!
When Anamarie cried that she just wanted to go home, I never thought that and neither did Rachel. Rachel doesn’t think she had an adrenaline rush, but I don’t classify an adrenaline rush as always being a jittery, shakey, or spastic experience. Ours manifested in taking stock of what just happened, getting to safety, not leaving my mom and little sister behind. I don’t think they would’ve gotten up to run if we hadn’t told them to. I knew that climbing into the dunes, hiding in the grass, and getting to the road would be safe enough. But of course we were running on adrenaline—hiking, climbing, all in a span of what now seems like seconds.
I have terrible PTSD after the last dog fight between Shifra, Judah and Israel in December. Months of flashbacks, shaking, fear, etc even long after Shifra was gone. It tapered out—but even now if I hear a dogs getting into a scuffle and the bark/growl is at the same pitch, I freeze up, my vision goes dark, and I get weak-kneed. There was a lot more emotion and helplessness in that situation though—it was different because it was animals, not dumb humans.
I feel anger and a pent up need for vengeance towards the bitches that attacked us. You’d love to break bones, make them bleed, torture them and make them suffer for a long, long time before finally killing them. Because they are worthless. I don’t pray for their souls—I pray that they end up dead, laying in a pool of their own blood and shit and piss. Heartless of me, I’m sure, but I just don’t care. They’re without redemption, they’ll only drag other assholes into their world of senseless violence, preying on those they think are weaker than them. Too bad we hadn’t been armed. Too bad we hadn’t been the ones to giggle and titter about like brainless morons as we shot at them. It would just be nice to give them a taste of their own medicine.
