Dustin Truong, Grade 6
It was a night I would never forget the sound of sirens, gunshots and the sound of me plummeting thousand of meters. The thing that stuck those horrible moments into my head was the fact that I didn’t die. I remember every minute of that terrible night; getting shot, tightly gripping my bloody wounds, staggering to get away from my attacker, being grabbed and inhumanly thrown off the building. I was lost for words when I began falling towards the hard, rocky ground. I closed my eyes and prayed for the best.
When I hit the ground I felt the force rippling through my body, crackling my bones as they snapped and broke. I screamed in agony. When I opened my eyes I wasn’t dead, I was very much alive. I popped my bones back into their sockets and began searching for my attacker and answers as to how I survived. To my luck I found my attacker cowardly running looking back and forth at me amazed that I was still here. He looked as if he seen someone that should be dead, or a ghost, a term I rather not use. I didn’t blame him the blank zombie like look on my face could quite easily scare off animals big or small. Besides there was not much any one could do in this situation other than run. Eventually he stopped running when he realised if he didn’t die now he would be eventually be taken out when he least expected it or when he was most vulnerable. “ Fight I must,” he whispered to himself, like a mad man who had nothing left to lose but his life.
Then came the best part of the night. There was excitement and fear in the air. There was also that strange feeling you get when something bad is about to happen like a bad omen hovering over your head. I saw him reloading that wrenched gun of his as he tried to get some air in those pathetic bags he called lungs. It seemed as if his lungs had closed up due to fear. Then he fired the bullet and it dived into my chest. The force drove me back ensuring a collision with the wall. It wasn’t over; it will never be over. Not until I get my cold, red hands around his weak, scrawny neck and some answers. I trudged on taking a swarm of bullets each hurt and each useless. Step by step I walked towards him until he himself was trapped like a bird in a cage against a brick wall, a grim smile emerged. I stretched my hands towards his neck, as a thirst for blood took over. I was no longer myself.
I heard his pathetic attempts to persuade me to spare his life, and before I knew it he was dead. It didn’t end with my hands around his neck, as still I had no answers. The only thing left for me to do was to find out how I survived. So I began searching. Why did he shoot me? How did I survive that deadly drop? Why were the bullets useless? Why use Dark Angels for the title? Well, it has nothing to do with the story. Does that satisfy your mind?