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narrative It’s July 1993. I’m 12 years old. We are watching television in the living room. I hear a bird chirping outside the window of the living room. I pull the curtain wide open to see where the chirp was coming from. I saw a baby bird limping on the sidewalk, it must have fell out of the tree, I thought to myself. My instincts told me to go outside and bring the bird inside before a cat gets to it and eats it up. I turn to my brother, who is just sitting in the dining room next to me, and yelled out to him, “There’s a bird outside limping, lets bring it in the house until it gets better and then we’ll let it go.” My brother and I dash to the door to get the bird. As we both got to the porch and ran down three painted red steps, the bird began to hop towards a bush on the side of the house. Every time we got closer to the bird the louder the bird began to chirp. As the bird reached the bush it was a lot harder to grab it because of all the thorns sticking out of bush. When I finally got hold of the bird and began reaching for it. A loud bang sound had gone of within the neighborhood. It sounded much like a firework that had gone off. I startled from the sound and dropped the bird out of my hand. My brother looked frightened, said to me that the sound of that bang, sounded like gunfire. I told him that it was just some firework down the street since it is almost Fourth of July. So we went back to trying to grab the bird and thought nothing of it. Bang, bang, bang! I startled again and this time I looked up to see what the noise really is. It turned out to be a sound of a gunfire that was coming from the bottom of the street from a brown, dirty, graffiti apartment.
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