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Memoirs of a Post Modern America Chapter 2 "Miranda" (part 3)

posted 4/5/2008 10:32:15 PM |
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After a while, the people outside stopped trying to come in, and the teachers pulled the hurt children out of the group and to the sides. They pulled the girl from my lap too but she wasn’t moving. The men with the guns started yelling names again, this time taking the children out two by two. It seemed like the younger children always got up as soon as their name was called, but the older ones would try to run away or hide. Everyone was crying or yelling again and the men were walking around the group of children with flashlights and little photographs dragging them out as they were found. Finally, I heard my name called. He pronounced my name completely wrong, but I raised my hand anyways and said, “Here!” I thought that maybe if I made it easier for them to find me, the men wouldn’t be so angry, but as I walked to get in line, the same man who first came in our class grabbed me by the arm and pulled me so fast that I lost my step and tripped. I looked up and saw that he had Andrea by the arm also and dragged us like little dolls to the door.
I was glad to see that it was much cooler in the hallway than it was in the gym, but the lights were off out there as well, and that made me a bit scared. As the man ran with us down the hall and towards the front door, he stopped at the janitor’s office to talk to another man who was kneeling on the floor with a flashlight. He was looking at a big box with tape and wires all over it. The man seemed very nervous, yelled something at our guy, and pointed down the hall. We kept running again, but this time, I was on my feet and running right along with him. Andrea had a hard time keeping up, and kept tripping all the way down the hall though. I thought that maybe tomorrow, I would teach her how to run faster. We ran right up to the front door and the man peeked through the bookshelves that were covering up the windows. I guessed our parents weren’t outside yet because he started shouting something and yanked our arms with him towards the library. Nothing Mommy had ever said could have prepared me for what was inside.
I was only nine. Nine year olds should be playing in the park and watching the Disney channel. Nine year olds should be making cookies with their mom and learning how to do fractions in school. A nine year old should have never seen what I saw that night. Mommy said that big girls don’t cry, and I guess I got bigger that moment, because I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry if I wanted to. Everyone- the janitor, my friends, the bullies, the teachers- everyone who had left the gym was lying on the floor in the most terrible mess. Some had been shot; others had been cut and were missing arms, legs, even their heads. There was a camera along with the library computer and some bright lights set up at the librarian’s desk. There was also a big gray circle next to the window that looked like the dish we use at home for our TV. The man grabbed Andrea and I, led us into the light, and began to scream something in a words I couldn’t understand. I recognized some words, like “black water”, and “Hailey Burton”. I think Andrea’s dad works for Hailey and I guessed that they were talking about Daddy and that money again. Everything else sounded like the words Mr. Kahrim used to teach me when he visited Daddy. When the man finished reading, two people with masks held Andrea still and grabbed a big knife. Bigger than the ones Mommy uses to cut onions. Every night when I sleep, I see Andrea’s face and hear the noises she made when they cut her. Every night, I hear the men chanting then I hear the explosion. The guns fire every night, and the flashlights yell, Police! Just like that night everything always goes black and silent. Every night I wake up and wish that I wasn’t such a big girl. I wish I could cry, but I can’t, because big girls don’t cry…
The doctor was talking, but the words were coming out jumbled and blurry. He was saying something about writing or drawing pictures. Miranda opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. There were paper, pens, crayons and markers in front of her, but for some reason, she could not figure out what to do with them. She sat there for several minutes until the doctor whispered that it was ok, maybe she wasn’t ready yet. Slowly, Miranda picked up a pen and began to write. “My name is Miranda and I am 10 years old.”

Note: Sorry about the chops, i had no idea there was a word limit!

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Apr 6 @ 11:12AM  
Wow! This is one intense, well written, but sincerely scary story! Great job of writing from the perspective of a child.

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Memoirs of a Post Modern America Chapter 2 "Miranda" (part 3)