I ran for blocks.
She's the heaviest thing I ever carried. Cold, scared, crying...my little sister was going to die if I didn't do anything. I've tried carrying her in my arms, which didn't let me move as fast I wanted to. I stopped, and heaved her on one shoulder, but she kept making this gulping sound that made everything sound worst. I couldn't think of how to carry her with the wound, because she won't make it if we stay here. I settle for laying her behind my neck.
The streets were empty. Typically, whenever a shot is fired, everybody clears out. Nobody wants trouble and nobody wants the blame of who was shot and what was hit. I figure I have a little leeway because I'm trying to be responsible. Fourteen years old, and I'm the only one being accountable
My dad blames the government. My mom blames people who look like us. I blame myself.
I should have convinced my sister to hurry up. She had new chalk she wanted to try out. She wanted to finish her Picasso drawing. She doesn't know who that is, but she claims since she's heard the name in a song, she was worthy enough to use him as a muse. I blame myself for admiring her work a little too long, because it was good. She's talented, or at least, ambitious. I don't know what's more important, but the answer was really anticipation. Stuff like this happens all the time. I should have known better.
During a shooting, the people who stay out usually aren't the ones you want to talk to. The homeless, or worse, junkies. You can tell the difference because the homeless person really wants to be left alone, and the junkie will convince you that your donations will help a family in need. It worries me when some of the homeless people I normally see, turn to look at us, and start to follow me. I worry until I see a man, keeping his distance, but still see looking for where we're heading. I realize the only reason I see him because he looks worried too.
I have so little time.
My legs hurt more than I thought they could, so I turn it into a game. It's a race; a really, really, bad race. I used to be good at racing before I grew up, and I don't think I have the time to really do something like that in high school.
High school. Yesterday it was my biggest concern. I don't have many friends. People in class say that I look like a robot sometimes. I'm too focused, that I care about my schoolwork too much. I try to tell them schoolwork is how we make a life for ourselves. It something I heard my dad say when he was drinking once. Him and Mom were up and giggling, thinking that we were asleep. They talked about their dreams before that had us, and once we went off to school, that they make sure to do that for more kids in the city. The cheered and hugged, and poured more to drink, but that was the only time I've heard them say that. It's the only time I get to see them really be happy, and not the happy when we're around. That seems forced. They do it because they're scared of how we'll turn out if they don't.
Scared like am I right now.
"I'm scared." My sister says, quiet like she's in trouble.
"Good. Tell me why."
"I'm scared because it hurts."
"It does, it does, but don't focus on that." It's good to hear her voice. "Tell me what inspired you to draw today."
"Picasso."
"That's right. You told me that earlier." I had to look him up. I didn't know anything about him other than he was a famous painter. "He was famous for using cubes in his work."
"Cubes?"
"Yes. They're kind of like 3D squares."
"Oh, okay. I'll use more squares."
