The door burst open, rattling as it slammed against the side of the brick house.  The house’s owner stepped into the center of the doorway.  His sunburnt shoulders stuck out underneath his wife-beater soaked with sweat stains.  The overwhelming smell of cigarettes flooded my nose, and his thick fingers gripped his handgun.  My friends and I were in front of the gun.  His phone rang, and I looked at the rest of my friends’ jaws dangling open.  We ran.

My calves felt like they would catch fire, as I raced through the tall trees and back into downtown.  My heart was a bass drum in my chest, beating in my ears.  I couldn’t hear anything over my fear until the sirens wailed through the air.  The police stopped us, and then two other police cars arrived. 

The officers questioned us with a cold expression and tough eyes.  I squinted at them through the bright August sunlight, trembling with fear.  My friends and I stood side by side, but I never felt so alone.  We were too young for them to run our IDs:  we didn’t have any.  The officers took our names and parents’ phone numbers.  

My sister drove me home, and the police called my parents to explain the situation. 

When my parents asked about the gun, the officer uttered coldly, “He had a right to defend his property.  He didn’t know if those people were criminals or not.”  

“They’re kids,” my mother retorted.  

The officer sighed, but no words left his mouth.  

I stood in the center spotlight in a play I hadn’t auditioned for.  My dark skin was weaponized to justify someone’s weapon.  The officers echoed the man’s fears but were silent for me.  Fog clouded my brain, snatching away my ability to think.   The gun took my security away from me and corrupted my mind.  In return, my reflection in the mirror changed, and my innocence vanished.

I saw life through a new lens.  That moment was tattooed on my mind.  This lens is why I take my hood down in public.  This lens is why I always reach for a grocery cart in stores.  It’s why my heart constricts in my chest when I see blue and red lights.  This lens suffocates me, making me hyper-aware of my existence.  

I laid in bed that night, curled up like a baby.  I buried my face into the sheets, as I muffled my sobs, aching to be anywhere else.  My mother told my dad I cried because the police scared me.  But I really cried because I didn’t understand how the police couldn’t protect me, how my skin wasn’t mine anymore, and I didn’t know how anyone could survive in a world this cruel.