Stories full of sadness and longing, stories of redemption and salvation, stories of forgiveness and hopelessness, healing and wonder.
But this story is a story of violence.
It used to happen when I was five. It makes me shudder to
think of it, let alone tell it again.
I have lived in rough areas for almost my entire life. I
have lived near bars and pubs, heard the screams and shouts of anger and hurt
at night. I have felt terror before sleep, and I have known mindless violence
for no reason.
It was when I lived a bit further out that it happened
though. One of my chores was to go and buy bread each morning. Lots of children
hate chores, but this one chore made me hate bread.
I used to step out of the house to walk to the shop, and as
I walked I would notice a trail on the ground. I remember the first time I saw
it. I was quite excited – I didn’t know it was blood. I followed it eagerly, a
dark trail of brown drips, wondering what could leave such a trail. The first
time it led to a house, and I dared not enter there. But I soon saw a similar
trail again, and once, it didn’t lead to a house. Instead, it led to a man.
Covered in blood and contorted into the strange shape that the agony of death
brings to a person, hands clutching, desperate for something his now unseeing
eyes must have hoped was there. I don’t know how many times I saw a body when I
went to get bread in the morning when I was five years old. I don’t know how
often blood spattered the way there. I know only that it wasn’t good. That it
isn’t right for children to see this. It cries out of me that it cannot be so.
I use this story of violence and sadness as a springboard. A
motivation to see my country and this world changed. A world where violence is
no longer present is, I believe, possible, and I strive for it each day. I
wonder, would you strive with me?
Based on a true story.
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