Patience Carter, 20, one of the survivors of the Orlando shooting, has written a poem about her experience and it’s nothing short of heartbreaking.
She, her friend Tiara Parker, 20, and Parker’s cousin, Akyra Murray, 18, were on vacation in Orlando and were “having the time of our lives” at Pulse.
“It was the most beautiful bonding experience three girls could have,” she said, speaking from a wheelchair at a recent news conference.
They were about to leave when Omar Mateen opened fire, killing 49 people and wounding 53 others. They dropped to the floor and crawled, still not understanding what was happening. Carter and Murray made it outside, but when they realised Parker was still in the club, they returned, taking cover with a group of people in the bathroom.
Soon after, Mateen entered the bathroom and began shooting.
“Bodies were piled on top of each other on the toilet seat,” said Carter. “There were handprints on everything, and blood.”
She realised Murray’s lifeless body was sitting in Parker’s lap. “I saw her phone so I picked it up… because I thought I would be able to give it back to her once we got to the hospital,” she said. “Her mother told me not to blame myself but it’s hard.”
At one point, she says Mateen asked if there were “any black people” in the bathroom, and a man next to her replied that there were about “six or seven of us”.
Mateen said that he “didn’t have a problem with black people”, saying “you guys have suffered enough” at the hands of white people.
The guilt of feeling grateful to be alive is heavy.
Wanting to smile about surviving but not sure if the people around you are ready.
As the world mourns the victims killed and viciously slain,
I feel guilty about screaming about my legs and pain,
Because I could feel nothing like the other 49,
Who weren’t so lucky to feel this pain of mine.
I never thought in a million years that this could happen.
I never thought in a million years that my eyes could witness something so tragic.
Looking at the souls leaving the bodies of individuals.
Looking at the killer’s machine gun throughout my right peripheral.
Looking at the blood and debris covered on everyone’s faces.
Looking at the gunman’s feet under the stall as he paces.
The guilt of feeling lucky to be alive is heavy.
It’s like the weight of the ocean’s walls crushing uncontrolled by levies.
It’s like being drug through the grass with a shattered leg and thrown in the back of a Chevy.
It’s like being rushed to the hospital and told you’re going to make it, when you laid beside individuals whose lives were brutally taken.
The guilt of being alive is heavy.
Source: Orlando Sentinel.
