It was hard breathing. Everything felt uncertain. I just stood there, watching him crying for help.
For my help.
I wanted to do something, I wanted to stop the bleeding, I wanted to help him. He was hurting.
My father was yelling at me whole being placed in the police car.
"Hold his hand Harmi. Comfort him."
That was the only thing I could do, and he just kept looking at me. It was my fault. I could have helped him. I could have stood in front of that bullet and protected him.
But I didn't. And now he's gone.
YOU ARE READING
Not Another #Hashtag
Ficción General"Identify me by my skin, see me as if i were only a color. How many bullets have to be sent off into one of us, for us to realize they do it for sport? How many hashtags must we become to understand it is real. We are not the slaves they still see u...
