The View from the Window by Carina Paredes-Rivera

The slight sound of a woman crying was being carried through the night, and it went on for at least ten minutes. I thought I was the only one who heard it until my sister Cassie, only a year older than I, leaned towards me. Her eyes were wide open, her voice shaking, “It sounds like a woman screaming and crying.” It was pitch black outside because our entire town has no streetlights. I knew I would have to look out the window. My heart was racing, I felt a knot in my stomach, and my throat tightened. I looked out, praying nothing would appear in front of me. 

I thought there was an accident. Someone was on the floor kneeling and screaming, begging for help with every breath, and another person just stood there. I didn’t know it then, but what I was really looking at outside our house, just a couple of feet away, was a man standing in front of my sister with a gun pointed at her head. I told Cassie there was someone screaming outside, and that it looked like an accident. She called over our sister Ruth, who took one look and ran to our parents. We followed behind her. 

Ruth began shaking our dad with urgency, “Creo que algo le está pasando a Jenni!” That was Jenni? What is happening? Was she the one screaming and crying? My God! Had I tried to ignore my sister’s cries?! I was drowning in guilt. Ruth continued, a bit more frantic, “Tiene una pistola, y la tiene apuntada a ella.” Who had a gun? And why was it pointed at Jenni?

My dad got up with no expression on his face. A gun. A gun pointed at his oldest daughter. He walked to the door, and the last specks of light from the living room slipped from his plain white T-shirt and blue pajama pants as he stepped into the darkness. My mother chased after him.

A couple of months earlier, someone had broken onto our property. Since then, my dad would take an old chain with padlocks that we had no keys to and wrap it around the gate, so it looked like it was locked. Everyone knew about it, except Jenni – she worked nightshifts, earning money for college, and my dad always locked it after she left. So, there she was, scared and cornered, with a man pointing a gun at her face, thinking she couldn’t get in because the gate was locked. 

My father approached the stranger and unwrapped the chain. The man turned the gun from my sister to my father. This is it, I thought as I watched through the window. Ruth had called the cops, but we all knew that was hopeless; the cops would take hours to get to our house. 

My father continued talking with the man, who turned out to be drunk. My sister had parked next to him outside a Walmart, and he accused her of stealing his motorcycle. But clearly, we didn’t have it, and my dad convinced him to leave. When he was gone, my sister remained on her knees after begging for her life, now heaving and vomiting. My mother sent me to the kitchen for some bolillo bread – a common Latin American remedy when someone feels scared or is throwing up. We did not have bolillo, but we had sliced bread, and that would have to do. 

Two hours after the man with the gun took off, the cops arrived. My family stood with them outside, telling them what had transpired. Nothing was the same for my sister after that night. She had to confirm who the man was and was scared that one day he would come back to find her. We were all relieved it was over, but for Jenni, it never was. Something in her had changed. Even now, when we go out for Starbucks, she makes sure no car follows her. 

Jenni sometimes talks about this event. She said she was traumatized, and that having a gun pointed at her really changed her perspective in life. She was scared to drive for a while but refused to allow this experience to break her. This experience changed her, shaped her, but did not break her. Jenni, now more than ever, wanted to live. Traumatic events do not define you; choose to be bold and continue living.

About Stories Matter: Stories Matter is a mentoring program founded by writer Leslie Zemeckis, and co-sponsored by the SBIFF and ENTITY Magazine, for young female writers, nurturing and inspiring the next generation of writers to tell their stories. A weekly intensive where published female authors give their time to encourage and share their writing process. These are the best of the bunch, some remain works-in-progress, and some will (hopefully) take these stories and turn them into longer pieces.