Short Stories

Flag

    We stood there, in front of the steps of that beautiful white building that should represent freedom.

    When I was younger, I dreamed of working there. Now, it disgusts me.

    There were two groups of us behind two different fences: on in favor of the bill and one opposed.

    I was opposed.

    The other side called us terrible names. They held signs with bloodied fetuses and one even had a picture of Charles Manson on it. I was horrified that people could compare the ability to have a choice to the a man who murdered entire families.  

    “Murderer!" one woman screamed at my face. All I wanted was freedom to do what I want with my body. I would never hurt another living being, keyword being living.

    Suddenly, a man jumped over his side of the fence. At first, I thought he was going to come over here and call us all murderers again, like another had earlier. When I saw the cold piece of metal in his hands, I knew different.

    “Gun!” someone screamed.

    The man beside me fell to the ground, his shirt soaked with blood. I curled up in a ball by his side. Is this really what our country has come to? Can peaceful protests really not be peaceful anymore?

    I layed there sobbing until the gunfire ceased. He jumped our fence to see who was left and alive. When he got to me, he poked me with the end of his rifle.

    “I know you’re alive, girl. I could hear you crying,” he said. “Look at me!”

    And I did. His eyes held a look I had never seen before.

    “Tell me why I shouldn’t shoot you right between the eyes right now?” he asked me, his gun pointed at my face.

    “Because you’d take away the only family my baby boy has that loves him. I couldn’t bear to give him up after he was born. I’m here because his Auntie Grace is being forced to carry a reminder of the man who raped her.”

    “It’s not that babies fault! Maybe she should’ve protected herself!” the man said, pushing the gun closer to my face.

    “The man who raped her was her pastor.”

    His face softened for a moment. Then, he pointed the gun to my head. I closed my eyes.

    A gunshot rang through the air, but I was still alive.

    “Ma’am! Ma’am! Can you hear me?” a voice rang out. A young officer rushed to me. “Ma’am? Are you okay?”

    And, technically, I was. I was alive. I had survived a man pointing a gun to my head. But I watched a man bleed to death. I watched a man take so many lives when he claimed to be there to save them.

    The officer helped me to my feet and lead me to an ambulance.

    “But I’m not hurt, right?” I asked him.

    “We’re just making sure.” he replied.

    As I sat in the back of an ambulance, I looked to the flag on top of the building.

    I came here today to make a difference. I traveled 637 miles to fight for what I believed in and almost had to fight for my life instead.

    Is this really what the flag means now? To fight for what you believe in, you must die in the streets. Is this really what America has come to?