Entry 79. Fighting rage

The staccato firing of shots, the whine of lasers, and the smell of death.

John Hemlock holding himself just over us, palms down, arms on either side of me and Buffalo, head ducked.

Screams. Shouts. Someone shouting, “Cease fire! Cease fire!” from behind the lines. A thundering noise I believe was the sound of 5,000 people running in every direction. Moans of pain. Shrieks of agony. Higher-pitched screams as loved ones recognized the victims.

John holding his position as best as he could with dozens of people jostling past us. His body was bruised and scratched afterward, but he was committed to protecting us at any cost.

“Don’t worry about it,” he would say later when we gasped at his purple and blue arms and ribs. “Looked a lot worse after Super Bowl CCX.”

They knew we were unarmed; they knew we had pledged to take our stand without lifting a hand. They shot at us anyway, they wounded hundreds anway, they killed 35 of us anyway.

These were not cold-blooded killers, they were not Earthians shooting at strangers. They were our neighbors, and though I did not realize it at the time, that would make all the difference.

I did not hear about Washburne until much later, did not know that one of the shooters brushed a young woman’s brain matter off his uniform in horror, tossed down his weapon, and walked off.

“Washburne! Get back here and hold this line!” his commander barked.

“No, sir,” Washburne called over his shoulder. “I choose not to participate.”

I know now that at least a half-dozen other security officers followed Washburne off the field. At that moment, however, I had no idea. All I knew was that Badiah Sinclair had to have ordered this.

Thirty-five dead. Thirty-five lives. Thirty-five varied collections of hopes, dreams, triumphs, disappointments. Thirty-five stories. Countless grieving friends and family members.

And I understood the power of rage. Nearly my entire being wanted to find a weapon – any weapon, a stick or a rock would do fine – find my oldest and dearest friend, good old Badi, strike him in the head, again and again, keep striking until there was nothing left but a bloody, dead mass.

Somewhere, deep down, I knew that if I did that, 35 lives would be wasted and Badiah would die knowing that he had won.

My only choice was to forgive the unforgiveable, to fight through the rage and give more than I receive. Not give back more death than I received – give more of what I fight with than any purveyor of death can possibly resist.

The time when loving your neighbor is most important is when there is every reason not to love.

And so I held Buffalo in my arms, and John Hemlock shielded the two of us, until officers came and told me I was under arrest.

“I am under arrest?” I said. “I am under arrest? For what?”

“Inciting a riot,” said the commanding officer, reading from a document. Yes, they had prepared the arrest warrant before the riot. They killed 35 people and brought me into custody, and it was all part of a plan. Those who’d laid down their lives deserved better than the outrage that threatened to consume my heart.

So I swallowed my rage, took several deep breaths, and as lovingly as I could, I said, “All right. Take me where we’re going.”

Entry 80 - Once a beautiful face