Brother and sister DeVante and Shayla Watkins move to a different city in the aftermath of the 1992 Los Angeles riots that left their neighbors and friends perished during the riots. They were forced to be home-schooled at their aunt and uncle's hou...
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My eyes shift from side to side, watching Los Angeles residents run off with cases of beer and TVs from local stores. Smoke, dark gray and choking, invades the atmosphere as buildings blaze. People smash through glass windows and doors of convenience stores, drug stores, and liquor stores with anything they can find—chairs, metal trash bins, anything with enough force to break in. Their rage is palpable, coloring the air as much as the rich hues of red and orange spreading across the sky.
"No justice, no peace!" they chant, the words echoing in the chaos. The nerve-wracking sound of gunshots crackles in the air like thunder, though without the raw power of a storm.
"SHAYLAAA!" My head whips around to see my best friend, Da-Shauna, on the ground, clutching her shoulder and weeping. Fear grips my heart.
"DA-SHAUNA!" I sprint toward her, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps.
"HEEEELLLP! HEEEELLLP!" I shout, hoping someone will stop rioting and help my best friend. "Help me, Shayla," she cries.
I pull her hand away from her shoulder and see a bullet wound. Desperately, I scan the chaotic crowd for help, but everyone is still shouting and rioting.
"WILL ANYONE PLEASE HELP ME, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD?!" I beg, using my plaid shirt to press against the wound. A middle-aged Hispanic man rushes over, thank goodness, and helps me apply pressure with a tourniquet.
"Miss, how old is she and what's her name?" he asks, his voice steadying me.
"Her name is Da-Shauna Tompkins. She's fifteen," I reply, holding her in my arms. "We got help, Day. You're gonna make it."
"Code GSW; we have an African American fifteen-year-old girl with a gunshot wound to the shoulder at Crenshaw Blvd," the man speaks into a walkie-talkie.
"Are you a doctor?" I ask, hope flickering.
"As a matter of fact, I am. Off-duty. Dr. Gomez from Martin Luther King Jr. Hospital," he introduces himself. He looks at Da-Shauna, his expression serious. "Don't worry, Da-Shauna, help is on its way."
A minute later, sirens wail, and an ambulance pulls up. Paramedics rush out with a stretcher. I follow them, not wanting to leave Da-Shauna's side.
"Shayla!" I hear a familiar voice. I turn to see Da-Shauna's older brother, Kafele, his eyes wide with fear and anger.
"She was shot in the shoulder! Kafele, just get in the ambulance!" I urge.
"Who shot my sister? Because I swear, I will blast anyone who—" BANG! A gunshot rings out, and Kafele crumples to the ground, blood seeping through his shirt.
"NO! KAFELE!" I scream, tears streaming down my face. The ambulance doors close, leaving Kafele's body behind. "You can't leave him here! Take him with us!" I sob.
"He'll be transported to the same hospital," Dr. Gomez assures me.
When we arrive at the hospital, I try to follow Da-Shauna, but Dr. Gomez stops me. "Shayla, wait in the waiting room. You can't come in here."
"Why not?" I demand.
"Because if you stay, you'll feel surrounded by death. Pray for your friends, Shayla," he says gently, handing me his phone.
I dial Da-Shauna's house, and her mother's sweet voice answers, "Hello?"
"Mrs. Tompkins? It's Shayla. Da-Shauna and Kafele... they've been shot," I choke out.
There's a clatter as she drops the phone, followed by her anguished cries. I hang up and call my brother, DeVante.
"Shae? Where are you?" he demands.
"Da-Shauna and Kafele have been shot! We're at Martin Luther King Jr. Hospital," I say, my voice breaking.
"We're on our way," he says, his tone urgent.
Dr. Gomez takes the phone back. "Thank you," I whisper.
He nods. "Let's pray, Shayla. God is our healer."
We talk about ending the violence until my family arrives. My mom wraps me in her arms as I sob, and we all form a circle to pray.
What feels like hours later, a doctor approaches with an unreadable expression. "I have good news and bad news. Da-Shauna is stable and was treated for her bullet wound," he says.
Relief floods me, but my heart clenches as he turns to Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins. "And as for Kafele... I'm sorry. He didn't make it."
Mrs. Tompkins' screams shatter the air. I collapse to the floor, my body shaking. This is the worst day of my life, and I will never feel the same again.
