Waking up Sunday Morning, I flip on my phone and I see facebook asking me if I’m safe...I’m like...safe? Then I turn on the news and see that someone has shot up the waffle house. Then I realize this is my Waffle House...my Waffle House that I’ve been to many times in the past, my husband frequents around this time in the morning, and that the psycho that shot it up...still on the loose.
They say he ran in to the woods...those are my woods. We live next to a huge lake, and this lake is heavily forested. My house backs up to those woods he ran off in to.
We have lived in fear that he’ll come out of those woods...and what if he does it in my backyard? Last night we pushed a couch against the front door, and a bookshelf against the back door. This morning, instead of my normal walk to the bus stop, I took a Lyft.
This is what it’s like to be afraid. My neighborhood is a ghost town. Normally vibrant AM suburb, windows are drawn shut, cars are still in their driveways.
Antioch is the most racially diverse part of Nashville, and we all get along. This out-of-towner from Illinois came here and disrupted our lives. He killed “Nashville Nice” a bit more.
Sigh...what a day.