I sat on the subway unsure of where I was going. Maybe Harlem or East Brooklyn. I'm a runaway, from Lil Haiti, Miami. I always wanted to come to New York, figured I could get away from all my problems and all the street violence. A poor white girl with an eating disorder and self harm problems in the hood is never a good mix.
People think because you're in the hood and you're trying to survive that you don't have these problems. They're idiots.
I like the subway, I can stare out the windows and get lost in my music. I turn my head beside me and I see an older women. She has dark skin and cornrows.
She's leaning on a cane and trying to keep her eyes open. I wonder what her story is. Out of the corner of my eye I see two guys cross into our car. I've always been too afraid to go between those parts of the train. One of the men is white, his head bald and the phrase "white pride" tattooed on his neck. There was a swastika on the back of his head. He was carrying, and it wasn't your average handgun from the looks of it.
The other man's Hispanic, which is ironic if they're working together. He has average brown hair and is smaller than the white guy. They see me eyeing them and I quickly look away, pulling one of my earbuds out so I can be alert of the situation.
"Everyone remain silent and no one gets hurt," said the white man pulling out a semiautomatic that was hidden in his heavy coat.
That's the biggest lie any shooter says, especially with that kind of weapon. I began examining the car. There is an infant in her mother's arms, who is trying not to weep. There is an Asian college kid bobbing his knee up and down quickly. There are 3 homeless men in the corner.
"5. 4. 3. 2..." It was the Hispanic man counting. "1"
That all too familiar sound fills the car as I dart down to the floor. The women beside me has been hit so I quickly roll over into her blood pool making it seem like I was dead as well.
There are screams of innocent lives being ended. The infant isn't crying and I hope it's because he's too scared to. It took me a bit to realize the train had stopped. I kept my eyes shut, not daring to open them until I know the men are gone. This isn't the first time I've been in this situation, and you'd think I'd be more afraid than I am. Even though my heart is pounding hard enough to break through my chest, I'm not that scared. I'm not afraid to die, but I'm also not about to put a target on my back.
I try to make my breathing as small as possible, but whenever I focus on breathing, I always feel like I'm not getting enough air. But lack of oxygen isn't the only thing that makes me feel like I'm suffocating.
"NYPD" I hear a New York accent scream. "Clear." I open my eyes and look up.
"We got a live one!" Yells a tall lean man running over to me.
"We need EMS fast."
"I'm okay," I whisper.
"I'm Detective Don Flack, you've been shot."
"No," I whispered sitting up. There was blood all over me, dripping off my face and painting my arms. My ripped jeans stayed somewhat clean even though there was a bit of spatter, and my shirt was fucking soaked.
"We need EMS now... What's your name?"
"JJ"
"Okay JJ where were you hit?"
"I wasn't, I... I rolled into her blood pool when I heard gunshots."
"Stand up," said detective Flack helping me up. I was covered in blood on the entire front of my body.
"Hey Mac I got 7 DOA's and one survivor," he said into the walkie talkie.
"Copy I'm coming down now."
"How old are you?" Asked the Detective.
"I'm uh 18."
"Flack. Damn what happened?" Asked another man about the same age as the Detective except a little shorter.
"I don't know, we have one survivor. This is JJ. Come on let's go get you cleaned up. I need to take your statement."
I nodded following him out of the subway car.
"Mac, do you have an extra shirt?" Asked Detective Flack.
"Is she the only survivor?"
"Yeah I'm taking her to get cleaned," he turned to me, "do you want to change?"
I nodded, "please."
"Were gonna have EMS look at you first it shouldn't take too long." I nodded.
"Do you want me to stay with you?" I nodded again. There was something about the Detective, I'm not exactly sure what, but something makes me feel like I can trust him. We went up the escalator, through the gate, and to the ambulance.
"Only survivor, her name is a JJ. She said she wasn't shot but I still want you to check her out." I sat down in the ambulance.
"JJ, that's a cool name," the doctor said in a calm voice, trying to comfort me while he did his examination. I tried my best not to resist, but for one, I don't like people touching me, especially my stomach and chest area, and two, my body isn't exactly something I'm confident about.
I didn't respond to his statement, unsure exactly how to respond to that. Thanks? I guess? I'm really not sure, so I just sat there silently, only making eye contact with the sidewalk in front of me.
"Are you from New York?"
I shook my head. "Where are you from" he asked looking at my scars, checking them to see if they were infected.
"I was raised in Lil Haiti, then went to Atlanta for a bit."
"What brings you to New York?" He was cleaning the blood off me. Detective Flack was a few feet away looking to make sure I was okay.
"I'm chasing dreams."
"How old are you?"
"18"
He looked at me softly and bandaged up newer cuts. "How much do you weigh?"
Again I didn't respond. He smiled at me softly. "Detective," he said signalling for Flack to come over.
"How is she?" He asked.
"She has no injury from the shooting. But I will need to escort her to the hospital."
"Why?" He asked looking at me. I bit my lip.
"She is a harm to herself. You can take her statement but I need for her to go to the psych ward." Flack was stoic.
"Can I take her to get some coffee, talk to her, and I will personally escort her to the hospital."
The EMS guy thought for a moment, "ask Detective Taylor, that should be fine."
Flack nodded picking up his cell phone. "Mac hey, our witness needs to go to the hospital... No she is not injured from the shooting but she needs to undergo a psych eval... Yeah I was asking if I could first get her statement, you know talk to her, then I will personally take her to the hospital... No I don't know if she has any. Okay thanks Mac."
Flack smiled at me, "let's go get some coffee after you're all wrapped up."
I looked at him and tried to smile back. I got up once bandaged and changed and followed the Detective to his car.
"So you're from Miami?" I nodded.
"Where's your family?"
I didn't answer. He looked at me sympathetically then moved his attention back to the road.
"Where do you want to get coffee?"
"Where ever you want."
The rest of the drive was silent. Detective Flack seemed like such a nice person, but I'd do anything to not be put in the hospital. For one, I don't have money, and I'm not exactly sure of the laws in this state regarding mental health and those who cannot afford treatment. I'm not about to fork over cash I don't have to sit in a hospital I'm not about to get help from.
Not that I really want help.
I've been on my own for the past 9 years, I've survived this long, I'm not about to kill myself, I can take care of myself. I don't need to sit in a room with people that deem whether or not I'm sane after a few days of heavy medication and 'therapy'. Everyone copes their own way, and sure mine isn't as healthy as others, but you do what you got to do.
Detective Flack and I arrived at a small coffee shop down the street from the scene and stood in line.
"What do you like in your coffee?" Asked the Detective.
"I just want a diet soda, here let me give you some money," but he cut me off before I had the chance to take off my backpack.
"Nah don't worry about it," he said smiling.
I bit my lip and took a deep breath. After we got our drinks we sat down at a table in the corner facing each other.
"So JJ, you wanna tell me what happened?"
I took a sip of my soda. "I was just sitting on the train when I saw these men come into our car. They started shooting so I fell to the floor, and once I saw the women beside me had been killed, I rolled over into her blood."
"Can you describe the two men?"
"One was white, a buffer guy maybe 6'1. He had white pride tatted on his neck and a swastika on the back of his head. The other guy was a little smaller and Hispanic. Brown hair, no tattoos"
"Could you ID them in a line up?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I'll end up overthinking it, though."
Flack nodded, "do you have anywhere to stay?" I didn't respond.
"How long have you been on your own?"
"My mom left when I was 9. I usually stay on the subway and sleep there because it's warm. But I get kicked out sometimes so I go to a 24 hour place and hang there."
"Do you have a job?"
"I play guitar at the station."
"Where's your guitar?"
"Fuck I must have left it on the train."
"It's evidence now but you'll get it back once the case is solved as long as it doesn't have important evidence." I nodded.
"How long have you been cutting?"
I was silent for a moment. Generally this was not something I talked about for multiple reasons. Hospitals aren't fun, and generally people give you that 'oh there are people with bigger problems.' Never mind that I've been homeless since I was 9.
"Since I was 9." He nodded.
"I have to take you to the hospital. Have you ever been inpatient before?"
"Yea, but its fucking awful. I'm not a threat to myself. The EMS guy said I was physically fine. I really don't need to be in a hospital."
Flack looked up, thinking. "What if I have one of my guys check you out, and see what he has to say?"
I sighed then nodded, figuring it was better to have someone Detective Flack trusted talk to me rather than some lady at the hospital that would probably judge me.
"Alright let me call him and see how he wants to do this."
I smiled, grateful that Detective Flack wasn't like everyone else. Wasn't like those cops that take a look at me and figure I'm a criminal or another nuisance or that I'm a freak because my arms are trailed with purple scars. Grateful that for once, someone actually gave a shit, and wanted to help me.
Grateful that finally, fucking finally, someone cared.