Sandy Lu

Mrs. Belmonte
AP Language & Composition
January 15, 2014
Stop the Violence
In the United States, violence is a highly controversial issue, especially when it comes to
gun control. Nowadays, crimes are highly publicized, whether it is about shootings, kidnapping,
or even robbery. Every day, on the news, I hear about someone getting shot in their
neighborhood or being involved in a hit and run. When is it going to stop? People are just
minding their own business, taking out the trash, going to work, or even children walking to and
from school are being injured or killed due to acts of violence. Why should I, along with every
single person in this country, have to live in a society full of criminals or in fear of crime? Why
should parents have to worry whether or not their children come home safe? It is sickening
having to hear about all of the violence that is occurring in our daily lives. Enough with the
deaths. Enough with the pain. Enough with the damage. It needs to stop.
I remember being involved in a school shooting when I was in first grade. Nearly a
decade has passed since that terrifying, heart wrenching, and traumatic event. However, more
mass shootings and violence has occurred since then. I remember last year, school has just
ended, and I was getting inside my aunts silver car and she was in tears. Why? 26 people died
that day. 20 of them were children. They were only 6 or 7. Can you imagine going into school
one day and never making it out alive? Can you imagine receiving a call that your child or loved
one was killed? Its absolutely heartbreaking. You think school is a safe place to send your child
to, but lately, it doesnt seem that way anymore. Enough is enough.
Violence is everywhere. Sandy Hook: 26 deaths. 20 of them were children. Columbine:
13 deaths. 12 students. 1 teacher. 24 injured. Boston Marathon: 3 deaths. 1 child. 2 adults.
Hundreds injured. These acts of violence show that action should be taken to prevent it. Gun
control, more law enforcements, or improved safety measures. Whatever it takes.
I can still clearly remember that day a shooting occurred in my first grade class. I was
sitting at my wooden oak desk, talking to my best friend, Emily. She had been my best friend
since preschool and we would do everything together. She was wearing her favorite floral pink
dress. Our tables are grouped into 4. There were crayons and construction paper scattered across
each of our desks. All was going well until suddenly, a static comes from the intercom and a
womens shaky voice states, Code red. The school is on lockdown. I repeat, code red. Her
voice cuts off abruptly as I hear a faint popping sound in the background. My teacher, who was
sitting at her desk reading a book, immediately jumps into action. Her face is pale. She runs to
the steel blue door, with her heels clicking on the floor and her ponytail bouncing around like a
dog wagging its tail. She locks the door while pulling down the shade to cover the small glass
window. Okay kids, lets clear your desk as quietly and as fast as you can, she says. I can tell
shes trying to stay as calm as possible. She cant fool us. Somethings wrong. A code red?
Weve had tornado and hurricane drills but never a code red. This wont end well. She turns off
the lights and ushers us to the corner of the room, far away from the door. My friends around me
are whimpering. Whats happening? asks David in a quiet voice.
Bang. A gunshot erupts next door. I can hear the shuffling of feet, desks crashing to the
floor, and children screaming and crying. Everyone is huddled next to each other. I hear
footsteps slowly approaching the door. I can see a mans shadow through the shades. The door
knob turns and his attempt to come inside fails. He pounds on the door with his fists and
continues to jerk the door knob several more times. He steps back. Bang. I jump. A dent was
made through the door. Bang. The window shatters. Glass falls to the floor and clinks several
times. An arm comes through the window, reaching blindly for the door knob. After much
frustration, he slams his hand on the door and pulls his arm out, carefully avoiding the remaining
sharp glass sticking out on the window. Bang. The door knob falls to the cold tiled floor. The
door bursts open and a man dressed in black stomps into the room with a rifle in hand. He did
not say a word. His eyes were as dark as coal and his face was emotionless. He raises his rifle
and starts firing at us with no hesitation. Everyone starts screaming and scrambling around the
small room trying to avoid being shot. Desks and chairs are falling over. It was chaos.
I immediately stand up from where we were all sitting and I start running to avoid being
shot. Bullets whiz pass my body. I need to get out of here but the shooter is blocking the
doorway. I get to my desk and push it down on its side so that the top of it is shielding me from
the bullets flying everywhere. Tears are streaming down my face like a waterfall. My heart is
pounding. This is it. I will never see my family again. I curl into a fetal position as if I can shrink
myself and never be seen. As I lay there, shaking and trembling, I can hear the thud of my
friends dropping to the floor after the sound of a bang and their bodies being pierced with bullets.
The walls, once covered with our beautiful drawings of our family, is now splattered with
blood. I can hear bullets hitting the desk Im hiding behind and pushing it closer and closer
towards me, but luckily, none of them were able to go through. It is a never-ending cycle of
shooting. I look to my right and see Emily, whose floral dress is drenched in dark red blood. I
feel an urge to scream, to run to her, and hold her lifeless body. I didnt even get to say goodbye.
It was just several minutes ago, I was talking to her about our plans this weekend that wont be
happening anymore. I hate myself. I feel hopeless. All I can do is lay there and pray that I wont
get shot while the rest of my friends are out there dying or already dead. The sound of shooting
ends abruptly with several clicks coming from the rifle. Hes out of bullets. The man curses
under his breath, kicks over a chair, and walks out of the room. His footsteps growing distant as
seconds pass. I stay where I am. Im paralyzed with fear. Exhaustion finally kicks in and
eventually, I drift off into a world of darkness.
I dont know how long I laid there. I was awoken by the sound of footsteps as a swarm of
armed police officers enter the room. Oh god, I hear one of them mutter. Its a bloodbath in
here. They all walk around the room silently, leaving bloody footprints behind as they attempt to
avoid stepping on the bodies lying on top of their own pool of blood. Each officer are checking
the pulses of my friends, and shaking their heads after each one indicating that they are dead.
After an officer examines Emily, he looks around and sees me cowering behind the desk. He
steps over Emilys body and slowly walks towards me with his arms open wide. Its okay.
Youre safe now. He lifts me up with his hands under my armpits and carries me like a baby
being cradled. I can smell sweat radiating off his body. I dont care. His warmth comforts me as I
lean my head against his firm chest.
He carries me outside. The sun is shining bright, practically blinding me. I hold my hands
up to my eyes, attempting to block out the sunlight. I hear a familiar voice calling my name
several yards away. I lift my head up and see a disheveled woman dressed in a white shirt and a
pair of dark washed jeans. My mom. The mascara on her lashes has run down her face. Her eyes
are swollen and red from all the tears. The officer gently sets me down on the ground. My mom
drops onto her knees and I run straight into her arms.
They say its all over but its not. Although this shooting has ended many years ago, it
never fails to haunt me every single day. The noise. The blood. The deaths. For a couple months,
I was too frightened to go to school. I could barely step out the front door. I miss all of my
friends but it gets easier to bear their absence as time passes. There will always be a hole in my
heart that will never be filled. Violence needs to stop. What does it take? More deaths? More
pain? More damage? Enough is enough.