The devastating sound that rips students apart from their families,
buries their chance at a prosperous life; it will forever haunt me.
The numerous children who are dependent on me to strengthen their learning throughout the year,
are now dependent on me to remain calm and save their lives.
Beads of sweat trickle down my face,
ceasing my ability to think.
The menacing footsteps of the demonic school shooter approaching my classroom door repeatedly echo in my head.
I imagine piles of children lifelessly occupying the floor,
their pools of blood drenching the soles of my shoes.
The frequent sighs regarding routinely lockdown drills,
the handbook pages pertaining to conducting yourself during a shooting.
The intensifying burden felt when the safety of a child is placed into your hands,
a handbook cannot prepare one to be in that horrifying position.
I walked away from this catastrophe with a beating heart, but a traumatized mind.
Hundreds of families frantically and desperately searching for their children,
flashing vehicles scurrying to transport injured innocents to the hospital.
Pop! One. More.
Not another child. Please.