Mitchell woke up, surprised out of his sleep. He heard loud crashing and smashing noises out on the street, and groaned. He crawled to the window in his house, a two story, pretty little thing, with a green lawn and purple flowers. His alarm was ringing, but that’s not what had woken him.
Mitchell gazed upon chaos. His life until now had been a dream life. He lived with no violence, safety, a really good education, he hadn’t really worked extremely hard labor before in his life, and he felt that he was relatively sheltered. He knew that things like riots went on, but he had never experienced things, even though he had lots of times thought about horrible things like that happening in the world.
What he saw was complete chaos. The street, usually calm, was now a war sone. Teenagers, ranging from 12-18, it looked like, were racing down the street, and some were throwing rocks and things at the windows of houses, and others were setting light to cars, and watching them ignite in a fantastic mushroom cloud, as the fuel lit.
The rocks smashed into the windows of his house, and he ducked instinctively as the glass tinkled and smashed into thousands of pieces. Luckily, his window had not been hit, only the sound from downstairs had frightened him. But as he got up, he saw a rock hurtle at his window.
He ducked, but too late. The rock smashed into his face, and he felt horrible pain as the rock smashed his nose. He heard the bone crack, and felt sticky, hot blood trickling down his face and onto his shirt. He was on the ground, moaning and clutching his face, trying to stop the pool of blood around him from growing.
The shards of glass shattered maliciously, tiny shards embedding themselves into his skin, on shard slicing his back. He felt like the blood was pumping in gallons from his back and his nose. Mitchell tried to move, but every move seemed to slice him on glass, so he stopped.
Mitchell sobbed, and tasted the horrible taste of blood in his mouth. Then, he heard the door downstairs being kicked in, and he gasped, wondering what the intruders would do. He heard his mother being screamed at, and then he heard the sickening sound of metal against something hard. Had they hit his mother?
Then, the pounding of feet on the stairs. The footsteps came closer and closer, and then, the intruders were at his door, kicking it in. The weak, flimsy door flew in, and two men rushed in. They saw the window, and saw Mitchell laying on the floor. The two men sneered. “Aw, does he have a boo-boo?” The other man laughed. The first man reached down, and pulled Mitchell’s hands off his face.
Then in a savage action of malice, he pulled his hand back, and smashed his hand into Mitchell’s face. A spasm of pain rocked Mitchell, and then someone was screaming, screaming. Who’s screaming? Why won’t they stop? Then, he realized it was him,
He tried to stop, to shut his mouth, but his body wasn’t responding. He felt himself being dragged down the stairs, hoisted by his arms down the stairs. His cut and bruised legs were bumped unceremoniously, and he felt the scraping as he was dragged onto the pavement. He was dumped next to his mother on the street, who for once, was not smiling or laughing, but was crying.
A man stood in front of the line of people, all people on the street, who Mitchell knew. The man straighted and asked a man, “Is this all?”
“Everyone on the street!” The other man replied, his voice nasal.
“Alright! ALL YOU IDIOTS, PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!” The first man barked. Everyone complied. Then the man nodded at the man that Mitchell had just noticed, standing behind them. That man grinned in a cruel way, and drew a gun. Some people screamed, but all stayed seated. The man put it to a kid’s head, a kid around Mitchell’s age. The kid was crying, sobbing, his eyes showing fear.
Then the man pulled the trigger. A bang. Louder than Mitchell could have imagined. Suddenly, there was a red mist around the boy’s head, and Mitchell saw what he knew was blood splatter on the ground, and he saw the boy slump and fall, his head falling like a weight, and making a sickening thump on the concrete.
Then, the next person, a man. As the man was about to pull the trigger, one boy, only 5, stood up on his tiny legs and started to toddle away. The man turned, saw the running baby, and aimed through the sights on his gun. The horrible blast and the gun’s recoil, and suddenly splotches of red were spreading across the boy’s shirt. The boy stood, wavering, and then fell to the ground, his tiny head making a crunch against the hard concrete. The mother screamed, and started to sob.
She stood up, “MY BABY! HE WAS ONLY 5! HE BARELY HAD TIME TO LIVE!” The man grinned wolfishly, and shot again, 6 times. The woman with six gruesome holes in her body crumpled to the ground. Mitchell felt sick to his stomach, knowing that he would be dead by the end of the day.
A horrible sob escaped his body, and he stifled the rest, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Why were they doing this? They wouldn’t just do this out of spite, would they? They must want something. How wrong he was. The man grinned at his leader, and put his gun to the head of another person Mitchell knew, Ms. Reval, the old woman who lived in the house a few houses away from Mitchell’s.
To his surprise, she looked defiant. “Kill me if you will, do what you want!” She croaked harshly. “I am old, so it doesn’t matter to me, it’s a matter of time until age kills me. But all these others, who barely had a chance to live a life, to go to college, to be parents, to become famous, to travel the world. You would take their lives? The ones who have not done anything yet in their lives, who haven’t experienced the marvels of the world? You are a disgrace. I hope that you die, go to Hell, rot in the bowels of the Earth, and burn in the fires of hell!” With that she spat on the man’s face, twisting around.
The man’s face was overcome with pure fury, and without ado, he took his gun, and clubbed her on the neck, so she was not dead, but hurting. Then he whacked the butt of his gun on her splayed hand, and Mitchell heard the bone crack. The woman screamed, and only then did the man shoot her, in the head.
As the man was going to move on to the next person, a boy appeared silently from the bushes that lined the yard of one of Mitchell’s neighbors. He wasn’t short, but not incredibly tall. He looked around 12 or 11, and he wore a pair of shorts and a baggy shirt. His face though, wore a look of pure fury. His eyes were stony, and he was scowling, his eyebrows furrowed.
“STOP!” The boy shouted furiously. The startled executioner turned, and saw who it was. He grinned sheepishly at being surprised.
“Aw, look, it’s a little hero!” The man sneered, and leveled his gun. He aimed, cocked the gun, and fired. The bullet whizzed towards the boy, and Mitchell thought he was dreaming when the bullet stopped, as though hitting an invisible wall. The bullet turned towards the man, and launched through the air. Suddenly the man dropped down onto the floor, crumpling into a lifeless heap.
The leader, up in front of the line, turned white. Suddenly, the gun in his holster was floating in front of him, and whacked him in the temple. The leader was knocked back, spread eagle on the ground. Then, the five other men who had been standing with the leader were running in panic, heading towards a random house they had chosen. Then flew in, and slammed the door. Mitchell heard the door click, and groaned. His house, they had chosen his house.
Then, the strange boy turned the face his house. The boy focused on Mitchell’s house, and with an abrupt cracking noise, the house blew apart. The windows shattered, and the walls were blown out, shrapnel of appliances like the dishwasher, flying all over. Pipes and wires were flung out, and debris from the wall landed in piles all over.
Pieces of the roof’s tile sprayed around like bullets, whizzing over Mitchell’s head. The top floor and the stairs were destroyed, blown to smithereens. The men inside were left, cowering, on an empty lot. Except one man, shredded to piece by shrapnel. The men were shocked, but only one man quickly sized up the situation.
He pointed his gun at one of the people lined up. “Hurt me, and say goodbye to that kid.” Mitchell was the target. The boy sneered at the man pointing the gun. Suddenly, there was a cracking sound, and the gun blew to pieces. Little pieces of metal pelted through the air, and found their target, the person threatening Mitchell. Mitchell immediately knew what had happened. The bullets in the gun had been blown up.
I really did laugh though. My sister cried when she heard that the 5 year old boy was killed. 
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