Firework Autobiography

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Boom. Bang. The distant sounds of fireworks slashed through into the thick walls like a knife to butter. The awful sounds confined me in the unlit room as I failed to fall asleep. The fact of the matter was, those firework sounds weren’t sounds of fireworks; they were gunshots. The sounds of gunshots injected into my dark room alongside sounds of sirens, following just thirty minutes later.
This was what it was like for me. I was lucky enough to live where the bullets never pierced through the walls. Not so lucky, is having your house broken into, twice. The first time took place on a bright sunny day when my sisters and I were at school, and my mom was at work. The thug had taken out the front window of my sisters’ room and ravaged through their belongings. Subsequently, he ravaged through my belongings. Eventually, he arrived at my mom’s room where he ravaged through her entire closet. What did the thug take in total? Rent money and clothing, more specifically, my socks and underwear. I was seven at the time. …show more content…
Maybe it was a dope fiend, itching to get another hit. Maybe it was a gangster who had a body of a seven-year-old. Maybe it was a father with no money to put clothes on his seven-year-old boy. Whatever it may be he did it out of not having money. He lived in the struggle with the rest of us. Does it justify taking money or clothing, from an already poor family, no, but it provides possibilities to why he might’ve done it.
I can never forget the time I looked deep into my mom’s hazel-brown eyes. It was just after the second time our house had been broken into, again. What I saw was the twinkle, the sign of struggle. It was probably the same twinkle that was in the eyes of the first thief. My mom plunked herself on the bed, staring into the violated closet where the money had been hidden and stolen. Clothes were hurled everywhere. Not a word was conversed with one another. My sisters and I, all just huddled around her, in
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