Seeing Red — Max Abraham
The MTA isn’t just a part of New York City; it’s the systems of veins and arteries that keep the city flowing, pumping people from the Bronx to Manhattan to Brooklyn. This morning millions of people may have used it, from doctors to NBA players to thousands of young students. I was one of them, at only thirteen years old. I felt no fear.
And yet, now I do. It grips me like nothing ever has. The subway car seems dimmer than before; the environment is colder and more unfriendly. I don’t take a seat, instead opting to stand in the doorway. I wear the same stone-cold face that I always do, yet today it feels more real. This is never the friendliest place on earth, yet there’s usually an unspoken respect. There is an odd safety in the collective experience. Not today.
The events from this morning have everyone on edge. The headline, “Shooting on the N train” still rings in my head. I’ve always known it could happen. In fact, I know that gun violence happens all the time. But this one hits closer to home. I have friends who have friends who were there, who saw the damage, the blood. That could’ve been me. That can still be me. All I can imagine is a pool of blood at my feet as it is me who is shot and killed.
The train starts to move, plunging the outside of the car into darkness. It’s only four stops, I tell myself. But it doesn’t help. The air is thick and I feel heavy with the eyes of strangers. With every glance, I am reminded of the murder they are all capable of, with the pull of a trigger. I try to focus on my phone game, but every five seconds I get the urge to look up. An animalistic defense mechanism has been activated inside of me. Any one of them, it tells me, could pull the trigger on you.
Every time we reach a stop, my fear only grows. First at Nevins, next at Atlantic Avenue, then Bergen. I automatically analyze everyone who steps on, checking for a metallic mechanism of death. One man has his hands in his pockets and for all I know he could be the next mass shooter. Is he jittery? Nervous? Could he be hiding something? Most days I wouldn’t care, but today’s different. The reality that there are more guns than people in America feels a little more present.
As we pull away from Bergen, I start to count the seconds. Just one more stop. My fists clench as I think of bullets flying. Lead burns in my gut, and bullets hit my skin. The people around me morph into crazed murderers, ready at a moment's notice to end it all. The difference between walking out these doors and never leaving the train is a small piece of metal and a pinch of gunpowder. It takes forever to get to my stop.
I think of all I want to do in life. The people I want to meet, the things I want to achieve. I still have so much time and so much opportunity, but with a small decision that could change in an instant. Just ask the kids at Sandy Hook or Columbine or Robb Elementary or any of the other schools that will never be the same.
We pull into Grand Army Plaza and the conductor's voice begins to announce the usual instructions. I turn to face the doors, and, when they open, waste no time in briskly walking out and up the stairs of the station. Only when the sun hits my eyes and the wind whips my face do I let out the breath I’ve been holding in this whole time.
Max Abraham is a born-and-raised New Yorker who enjoys writing as a way to clear his mind. He also enjoys being on the debate team, where he uses the spoken word to, hopefully, make the world a better place. Being a junior in high school, Max will soon be off to college, and though he's nervous about the responsibility, he's ready to change lives.