My choice.

My choice

My choice.

Not to kill, my treasonous mouth is the real culprit.

"It was me."

Three words, seven letters, a signed death warrant.

But it wasn't me.

How do I plead?

"Guilty."

No, no, no.

But what choice did I have?

What limits are there?

Do our children's mistakes erase our love for them?

Here I am. Take me instead.

Justification in opposition to justice.

Making things right one non-action at a time.

Are they really right?

Can they ever be?

Does an excuse refill his limbs with the blood they lost?

His lungs, with the air they can no longer breathe?

How about his children, who will grow up, always wondering, trying to justify in their minds the reasoning behind the tragedy?

If we all bleed the same, what does it matter what we, or anyone else do? We all bleed the same, and, in the end, we all will bleed.

Late night epiphanies,

As midnight rolls by,

To the darkest moments-

Where no one else hears us cry

The things that we share

With that one special friend

And all our frustrations

Stuck in bed on the mend

Our tears and our laughter,

The stories of our lives

Our late night marathon

Of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives

Good, bad, and ugly

Like it or not

It's all in the walls

'Til the day that they rot

It is the very backbone of humanity, existing only because we have seen firsthand what it is to exist without it. We will not be oppressed, made dependent on the very things that seek to cripple us. "Freedom" has long been the cry of those who stand despite the crippling pressure to submit to oppression.

So crush us.

I dare you.

But thousands of years of sheer humanity should serve to show you that we are simply not beings made to be subservient.

"Power" will always be the cry of those who have their freedom, but let me tell you, it will never be enough.

So, in your great power, allow us to understand freedom before you mercilessly strip it away, and, as the old cliché goes...

Pick on someone your own size.

“Breaking news,” the television blared obnoxiously in the small diner as the hooded man waited anxiously for his breakfast. “David Jameson, a 17 year old high school student and D.C. local, broke into the home of one of his teachers last night and attempted to shoot him. The teacher, James Prescott, was able to defend himself and actually managed to incapacitate Jameson for several minutes, giving him time to call the police. Unfortunately, Jameson escaped shortly before the police arrived. He is believed to be still in the area. If you see him, please do not approach; he is mentally unstable and considered very dangerous.”

A picture of the man in the diner popped up in the corner of the screen. He drew his hood closer around his face. He knew he looked suspicious, but he didn’t know another way to hide his face - or the bruises that were starting to form around his right eye and jaw.

A bored waitress dropped his food in front of him and walked away, completely oblivious. The man sighed and started to eat his pancakes and bacon. He didn’t know where his next meal would come from.

As soon as he finished, he dropped a twenty on the table, stood up and headed toward the exit. He reached out to hold the door for an elderly lady with a walker. She thanked him, then squinted through the tiny spectacles at the end of her nose.

“You look mighty familiar, young man. Have I-” she abruptly stopped speaking, and her eyes widened. “You- you’re-”

David didn’t wait around. He sprinted out of the building and ran on empty early morning streets until he rounded a corner and came to a screeching halt. The police had wasted no time in setting up a perimeter. He quickly backed up before anyone could see him and crashed into someone who was walking the opposite direction.

“Ow! Hey, watch where you’re- David? Is that you?” David stood up in a panic. Lucy Baker, who he’d gone to school with since kindergarten, stared up at him. She spoke quickly, before David could bolt.

“I saw the news, but I know you’d never do something like that. I mean, I’ve known you for what, 12 years, and I never even saw you talk back to a teacher, much less try to murder one. This is ridiculous. You-” David shushed her.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but right now, I’m kind of a fugitive from the law, so if you don’t mind, I’m just gonna go now…” David started to walk away, but Lucy grabbed his ankle.

“Wait! If you want, I have a place you can hide for a while… And you can tell me what actually happened.” David hesitated for only a moment.

“Really? That would be super helpful. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“So tell me. How did you come to be pointing a gun at Mr. Prescott in his room?” David took a deep breath.

“I don’t know if you’ll believe me. I’m still having trouble with this, and I lived it. I guess it all started a few weeks ago when Mr. Prescott asked me some history questions in class.” Lucy snorted.

“He is the history teacher. I suppose it makes sense for him to be asking history questions.” David scoffed, but continued.

“I don’t know, I guess he thought my answers were interesting, so he asked me to stay after class. I always wondered why he taught American History; it always seemed like he wanted nothing to do with America. Anyway, he kept asking about the ‘state of America today’ and our ‘issues with foreign policy.’ I answered honestly, I mean, America’s not perfect, you know? So I talked a little about the issues I saw in our culture, and in the government and its policies.”

“This still sounds fairly normal,” Lucy interrupted.

“I’m getting to the weird stuff. Ok, so he was asking all these questions, and I ended up talking with him after school and after class every day. But then...” David trailed off.

“Mr. Prescott started getting really weird. Like he’d start ranting about how horrible America was, but he’d catch himself just in time. And then- then yesterday, I was walking home from school, and I got jumped. Someone shoved me in their car and whacked me in the head. Next thing I know, I wake up in someone’s basement, tied to a chair, and Mr. Prescott is standing there and he tells me I have some ‘great opportunity’ to ‘fix this country,’ and he’s going on, and he asks if I want to have a part in this ‘uprising,’ and that’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

“What did you say?” Lucy asked.

“I told him he was crazy, and that I’d rather cut off my hand with a plastic spoon, and he, ah, didn’t like that, so he gave me these,” he answered, gesturing to his jaw and eye. “But what he was talking about, it was terrorism, Lucy. He wants the people responsible for this nation dead. And for some reason, I got the impression that he had a plan for doing just that. But I can’t tell the police, they think I tried to kill my history teacher. They won’t believe me if I tell them I escaped from his basement because he failed the knot-tying class as a Boy Scout, and I hit him in self-defense after he tried to recruit me to commit treason. That sounds ridiculous, and that’s literally what I’ve experienced.”

“MPDC! OPEN UP!” A loud banging came from the door. David and Lucy froze. David sprang to his feet.

“Lucy, do you trust me?” She looked frightened, but answered,

“Yes.”

David pulled a Swiss Army Knife from his pocket and pulled Lucy to her feet. She made a small sound of surprise. Putting the knife against her throat, he whispered in her ear,

“Scream. They won't arrest you if they think I forced you to help me hide." Lucy let out an earsplitting shriek.

“Help! Help me, please!” The door exploded inward, and cops swarmed the room.

“DROP THE KNIFE! DROP IT, OR WE WILL SHOOT.”

David hesitated, then dropped the knife.

“DAVID JAMESON, YOU ARE UNDER ARREST FOR THE ATTEMPTED MURDER OF JAMES PRESCOTT. YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT…”

David glanced over at Lucy, who was being attended to by several cops - and not in handcuffs, as she would have been if she had been caught helping him. He hoped she understood.

The policemen led him to a waiting car.

“You have to believe me!” David cried. “Mr. Prescott is planning something! He’s a terrorist! You have to arrest him before he can hurt anyone!”

“SHUT UP, KID. YOU’RE UNDER ARREST.” David rolled his eyes but continued to plead.

“Please, I’m telling the truth! He’s going to-”

BOOM.

In that moment, David realized he didn’t have to finish his sentence.

Because now, everyone could see that what he was saying was true.

It was as clear as the thick smoke rising in the distance.

Whoever said that nightmares can only happen in your sleep is wrong.

Because you can only sleep for so long.

But in the daytime, anything can happen, and this time, the storyline is no longer limited to your imagination.

Hitler's dream?

A Jew's nightmare.

Oppenheimer's speedy solution?

Unimaginable suffering.

Fear, true fear, can only happen when anything can happen.

Nightmares are forgotten, but it's the things that keep you awake at night that are the nightmares, not the other way around.

Everyone knows that everyone is facing their own burdens, but how often do we overlook that fact because we just don't like someone?

That girl who is cast aside, assigned titles like slut because it's easier than seeing that it's entirely possible she's just human.

I won't justify the transgressions that earn people the labels that they have, but to justify the labeling would be to count myself with the transgressors.

Humans are impeccable grudge-keepers. We have a perfect memory of what someone did to us four years, two months, eight days, sixteen hours, and twenty minutes ago, yet somehow in the middle of all that, we forget.

Forget that people are just that.

People.

Words, previously unheard, now seen. The depth of my own mind revealed to myself along with anyone else who cares to read.

Silence.

Broken.

Like a dam.

And now a river rushes forth.

Unhindered by the wall that used to seem so great.

What a relief.

The built up pressure and bone crushing power of the words held inside just

Released.

Is it made?

Bestowed?

Completely random, as the definition would have us believe?

Are we blessed?

Does luck defy its own definition by being something more than random chance?

Could it be, just maybe, that when we thank our lucky stars, there is someone to look down and say,

"You're welcome."