Eleven years ago, I remember praying to God to help me make it through the night. You see, a few hours before my plea, my high school sweetheart grabbed his rifle, forced me into his truck, and drove around town, threatening to end my life and his.
He had a past of getting upset with me, calling me obscene names, choking me or pushing me to the ground. This time was different, though. He parked the truck, pulled me close to him in the driver’s seat, grabbed the rifle, placed the butt of the gun on the floorboard, pointed the barrel towards me, and threatened to pull the trigger. I cried, trying to get away from him, and was finally able to convince him to let me go.
Two days later, I walked out of our apartment and lived with friends until I could get on my feet again. To this day, I fear guns. The thought that I could have been among the statistics of gun violence makes me thankful that God spared me that night. My story could’ve ended 11 years ago, and it breaks my heart that not everyone gets a second chance like I did.