The blood on my hand, the sirens still ringing in my ears, my heart hammering in my chest. Gazing into the gaping, jagged hole that just a few moments ago was a window. I didn’t even know I was doing it until I felt the glass cut into my hand, until I was staring down at the two-story drop, remembering a guy who shared the same birthday as me, who was also shot at, and then who flew his plane into a mountain.

No. It wasn’t like that, I had come so close to death already, I was amazed I survived…so why would I… But I could still hear the sirens, even at work, even when walking through the White House, even when walking by whatever musical act Toby had chosen for that day… especially when walking by whatever musical act Toby had chosen. No matter where I was, sirens echoed in my head. I would remember-

Three weeks ago. Sitting there, next to Donna, her giddy with delight, getting to see the cellist she wouldn’t shut up about. She was right, as she so often was, but the minute I sat back to enjoy the music, I wasn’t there anymore. I wasn’t in the same room as Toby, who as Jewish as he is, was still trying to get the Christmas spirit, or Sam, who had been antsy to start work on the President’s next speech, but was currently enthralled by the musician sitting before us. I didn’t even seem to be in the same room as Yo-Yo Ma himself, who had been able to captivate a group of people who are difficult to captivate, who have thousands of things on their minds, and the fate of the free world in their hands.

Instead, I was outside, the crisp, sharp night air passing in and out of my lungs, an action I would soon not take for granted. Gunshots, suddenly pierced the air, there was confusion, where had the shots come from? Who was hit? Where is the President? Scattering, finding a place where I would be safe, my breathing quickening, my heart pounding, sweat beading up on my forehead. Pressed against the gate, a bullet piercing my chest, my hands flying to the bloody wound. Part of me knew I was still sitting, sitting in the chairs with everyone else; the wound I was holding had long since healed. But, another part of me insisted that I was here, blood gushing out of my chest, a bullet lodged in their somewhere, the gunshots and screaming still playing through my head, the paramedics rushing me to the hospital, the sirens.