As a child, I used to believe in the greater good of the human race. I smiled, laughed, cried, and clung to the reality that there was life after death; that Mother would really send me a sign that she was in heaven, and watching over me; that every picture, every song, every prayer I sent to her she reached out and took, folding it close to her still heart. And often times, I remember nights and days when she would fold me close to her warmth, humming or singing a song she’d sang to me since I was still in her womb. I used to place my hand there, and sometimes wish I could return, or pray that a younger sibling would form there to keep me company. Of course, neither happened to my disappointment.

When I was about seven, I first realized how flawed and corrupted society and justice was. Daddy and I drove down to a convenience store for a carton or two of my favorite vanilla ice cream we hadn’t seen anywhere else. He parked the car on the side and promised to be back before I could say my alphabet — smiling toothily, I betted him for roughly five dollars, and watched him jog into the store. I remember the slow, sultry beat in the background of screams and gunshots as I ducked low in the passenger seat; clutching the stuffed rabbit he won for me a week earlier. Scared, I held my breath, turned down the radio, switched off the car. In the silence, I was afraid that whoever wielded the gun might hear my frantic and unsteady breathing, and come for me.

I saw his shadow, his profile cast in shadow, but I couldn’t forget the gleaming brown eyes and white rows of teeth. The gun rested comfortably in his left hand (my right) and his walk was confident, at ease, although he moved with urgency. I covered my mouth, tears prickling at the edges of my vision, and I prayed harder than I ever prayed before. Please God, don’t let him see me.

He didn’t. He got into a car, and tore from the parking lot. Minutes passed although my senses were dulled from the sounds of the gunshots and screams, and I stumbled out of the car. The smell of smoke and vomit and other body waste and was just an undertone of the heavy metallic smell curtaining the air; I clutched tightly to both the door knob and the stuffed animal as the world slid to a tilt, and I found myself on my knees, hard to breath. I don’t remember what happened next, but from the surviving witness accounts I crawled to the still form of Dad, face down on the concrete, his deep blue eyes in shock, his lips trembling with saliva and blood, and bile — I knew from the burning stench. I didn’t cry they said; I closed my eyes and his, and placed my heart on the place where his heart was, and said goodbye.

The police came, and by that time, my tears were mixed with the bloodstained ice cream.

At nine years old, I was still plagued with dreams about that night. First, they were vague, getting into the general things, then they were sharper, concentrated. The lights of the store were dim, they were near closing time — Dad was rushing to get there. “They’ll never be able to resist the request of such an angel,” he said with a smile and a wink. I laughed along with him as he turned up George Michaels, and sang off-key to his Careless Whisper for my sake.

“No, no, dad. It’s ‘guilty got no rhythm, so I’m never going to dance with anyone they way I danced with you.’”

He laughed. “Silly, silly me. I knew that!”

I gave him a side look, keeping my face skeptical and composed, before we broke out into another fit of laughter. We pulled up by then, and I remember glancing at the solitary streetlight through the light beads of water streaming down the window shield. I remember the soft horns of the few cars passing by, the lights as they sped away; the sweat that made my dark hair stick in clumps to my forehead and neck. I remember swiping at it, and smoothing Twelve’s (the name of my rabbit) ears down, and singing a fragment of a lullaby I made. Suddenly there were flashing lights, causing shadows to jump and run about, all set in a sepia tint; confused, I climbed into the backseat and started singing George Michaels loudly to fill the silence. Then came the gunshots again, and the screams, always sending fear roaring through me, and there was a tapping outside the backseat window, and when I turned, I saw the barrel of the gun, and the sound of gunshots filled my head, until I woke up screaming.

My eyes would search frantically in the darkness for something reassuring, but only find the shadows—the man standing at the foot of my bed, gun pointing at me, and the gunshots again.

And he would smile and say. “Silly, silly, child. You thought I didn’t see you.”