I was 17 years old, half-asleep yet still comprehensible enough to play “Call of Duty” and simultaneously make a quesadilla. You know, just another typical Friday night for the average introvert. My parents and sister out of the house, I felt full reign as I walked the hallways with nothing but a t-shirt and boxers on. I was the king, and my dog was the servant (or maybe the other way around). With freedom in my hands and the time only being 9:07 P.M., I readied myself for a night of fun and adventure. Or, at least the amount of fun and adventure one can experience stuck in his house alone. However, someone else had a different idea. Someone else longed for an adventure, but not the kind most people wish to experience.
The doors were locked. Or at least I believed they were. Either way, that doesn’t matter when your house has windows and an intruder has bricks. My dog laid sound asleep after eating half a pack of saltine crackers, so the whole “guard dog” mantra did not apply here. As I finished a game of “Call of Duty”, my ears instantly became filled with the shattering noise of a window. Of course, my dog immediately woke up and began to bark. This did not phase the intruder, however. I forcefully fled into my parents’ closet, grabbing the AK47 hidden behind a stack of unwashed clothes. The creeping of footsteps came closer and closer as the intruder walked carefully up the stairwell. I propped myself against one of the master bathroom walls, leaving the door open so as to give me a view of the staircase down the hall. At this point, my dog’s barking had ceased and I had no recollection of where he was. What I did see however was a man slowly walking up the stairs. He wore black jeans, a black hoodie, and a black neoprene mask that had the outline of a skull on the face. In his right hand, I spotted a Glock 19. I swiftly charged the bolt on my AK, allowing me to have 30 rounds of deadly force on tap. Without aiming, the intruder fired off three rounds in my direction, one of them hitting a framed picture within a foot to my left. Running to the bedroom door, I fired a couple rounds off towards him, all missing my target. During the confusion of gunfire, he ran back downstairs for cover. Now, unaware of the location of each other, we exchanged a heated conversation in which I “politely” asked him to leave my house. His response was gunfire.
This man picked the wrong house to enter.
I hurdled over the banister, with my rifle gripped in my right hand. I blind-fired from behind a wall as we exchanged more harsh words. I found myself hiding behind the couch in my living room, with my adversary behind the kitchen island. Although my ears were ringing and my eyes filled with smoke, I made out the sound of a magazine being released from a gun. He was reloading. This was my chance. I darted for the kitchen in a fiery blaze of courage and anger. I squeezed the trigger three times. Three bullets entered his chest and the body thumped on the hardwood floor. My dog then appeared, wagging his tail as if he wanted to play catch. The sound of sirens amplified throughout the neighborhood.
I was 17.
(This is a fictional story by the way)