The first time I witnessed a person being killed was when I was seven and three quarters old.
It was a Tuesday.
And I don't think I've seen the sun shine as brightly as it did that day.
I had wandered away from my parents, as every child who's filled with curiosity and innocence does at that age.
I was minding my own business, looking into the store windows, gazing longingly at anything that caught my eye.
A loud bang echoed through the air, and that's when the panic set in.
Another shot made my ears ring like on the Fourth of July when my father took me to see fireworks.
A few feet away from me there was a person lying on the ground.
A liquid, the same shade of red as my hair, trickled down their chin as a puddle of it began to form underneath their unmoving body.
Eyes as blue as the cloud-filled sky above stared at me, wide from shock.
I watched as the life slowly faded from those amazing blue eyes.
It was then that I realized I didn't like the color blue.
I much preferred the color red.
