The boy shot me

First, we played peekaboo. Then, he started throwing pretend things at me. And then, pretend punching. Finally, he shot me, first with a pretend handgun, then, with a pretend machine gun. I pretended to die. Grotesquely, elaborately, loudly, at great length. Even after I died, the bullets kept flying. I begged and pleaded: can’t we be friends? Do we have to be enemies? He was having none of it. He kept shooting.

I stopped reacting, stopped giving him the satisfaction of his seemingly magical ability to hurt me with his pretend ammunition. But the bullets kept flying.

His mom tried: be nice to the man, she said. The hail of bullets continued.

The train approached my stop. I stood, extended my hand, and walked to the boy, smiling broadly. Warily, he shook it. And didn’t let go. I had to wrestle myself away from him.


  1. What does it mean? Maybe it means different things to different people. Seems like good advice to me right now. To just surrender…

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.