It Doesn't Matter Where I Am. Only What I Witnessed.
By Michele Freeman
The first night the protesters gathered, I watched demons slip into human skins as easily as you or I would don a winter coat. I don't think they cared about the skin color or purpose or soul of the ones they choose. They simply ripped out the interiors. Sinew. Muscle. Bone. Dropped them carelessly onto sidewalks. Streets. Alleyways. Splat. Splat. Splat.
I watched them slither into the crowds, their fetid breath emitting gaseous words. Poisonous syllables falling into mouths and swallowed whole. Most cops aren't bad. He shouldn't have broken the law. It isn't as bad as it used to be. All lives matter.
I saw people choking. Others lashing out. And the demons laughed and danced. I think...I think they fed on the fear. The hate. The rage. They threw bricks at cars. Smashed windows. Looted restaurants and drugstores. Then they screamed, "Burn it to the ground!" I saw them make fireballs with their hands and lob them at buildings.
I fell to my knees, cried as I watched the chaos unfold, my heart collapsing inward. I felt helpless. Weak. Defeated.
But then... I saw people who stood their ground. Hundreds. Shouting in unison. One roaring voice that muted the demons and vanquished the havoc. That's when I realized evil grows easily in the souls of those who remain silent. I struggled to my feet and joined the thunderous chorus. I watched the demons so hungry for tragedy shrink...getting smaller and smaller until their stolen skins fell away. Until they were nothing but wisps of sulphuric smoke dissipated by the power of our symphony. For justice. For peace. For #BlackLivesMatter.
It doesn't matter where I am.
Only what I witnessed.