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He tried to run toward her, but his old body did not let him and he
fell to his knees four feet away from Sonya.
A sickness crept over his body like termites on a log. “No,” he
said softly, eyes filling up with salty tears. Of all the stories on
the news- the tens of thousands of news stories he has heard in these
last seven years- none of them broke his heart like seeing Sonya in
her crimson pool.
A crowd began to gather as the old man crept closer to the small
girl. Now, by her side on the cold grey cement, he placed one hand on
hers and the other over the bullet hole in her stomach. A painful
moan escaped his own stomach while applying pressure to the wound.
The blood was already starting to dry on his hand.
He closed his eyes and pushed the tears down his face. A guttural
cry echoed through the streets- Mmmahh- and James Parker could
no longer scream. His lungs would not take in the air.
The crowd around him started to whisper. They would say, What a
shame.
They would ask, Did you know her?
No one did, so they just stood and watched her bleed until they got
a text message or a phone call.
James Parker watched through burning eyes, moving the hair from
Sonya's face and revealing a certain peaceful look upon it; she was
almost smiling. Then, James felt his hand ascend and descend and he
realized she was still alive. With the little air he had in his
lungs, the old man looked around and pleaded, “Help!”
He tried to shout, “She's not dead! Please, someone call an
ambulance. Someone please help.”
But no one did. They just whispered to their cellphones, Oh my
god, Jackie, you'll never believe what happened to me just now.
There was a rage building up inside James Parker like he had never
experienced. Never once had he wanted to kill a man, and now he looks
at the crowd and wants to spare none. With his chin to his chest,
another sign of life keeps his rage at bay.
A small cough, from the small lungs, of the small dying girl. Sonya
opened her eyes, now glossy and staring at nothing in particular.
“Stay with me,” he told her. “You're going to be okay. It'll
all be okay.”
Then, James heard the sound of screeching tires and knew the
ambulance was almost here. He began to shake Sonya in hopes of
keeping her awake long enough for a medic to save her life. Suddenly
there was a flash of light in this dark event that injected hope into
the pessimistic old man. He begged, pleaded, and bargained with God.
Please, please save her. Take me instead, but don't take her.
James Parker looked into her eyes again and they were
starting to roll back. He looked up for the flashing lights of an
ambulance, but only saw the satellite dish of a blue news-van with
the number “7” on the side.
Once again, Sonya was left with no aid except the weak old hands of
a broken man. Through those hands, James felt the cold skin of Sonya.
Her skin began to pale. It's a shame, they would say, she's
so young.
The dying girl's breathing became rattled from the fluid spilling
into her lungs. But nobody cared about that now. The television
camera's were rolling; the beautiful blonde-haired woman covered in
make-up and fake pity was talking to America. Her face was stern as
she delivered the country their entertainment:
The
body of a nine year old girl was discovered in the streets of New
York today.
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