The first shooting I remember vividly, happened when a man dressed as the Joker shot up a midnight screening of The Dark Knight Rises. I was eating biscuits and gravy in a hotel in southern Kentucky with my mom and dad. There were a lot of people in the little complimentary food area of the hotel, yet we were all silent, watching the news coverage of this tragedy.

I remember looking over at my dad who was crying but trying not to act like it. We all picked at our food.

I remember praying to God that night.

I only pray when things are really bad.

A few months later in December, Sandy Hook Elementary School had another mass shooting. Twenty children from the ages of six to seven were killed. Six staff members were shot as well.

That night, I sat on the couch with my parents, not touching my dinner, watching the news coverage of this tragedy. I remember looking over at my dad who was crying but not at all trying to hide it.

I remember praying to God that night.

I only pray when things are really bad.

That weekend, my friend’s father taught us ways to kill someone with a pencil, how to board up a room if an active shooter was on campus, how to barricade a door, and self-defense techniques.

I remember helping teach a beginning ballet class at my dance academy. I hugged each of those little kids and pretended I wasn’t crying. When I looked up at my dance teacher, she was doing the same.

That summer, I picked up a .22 and shot my first real bullet. It felt wrong.

The next shooting I remember happened at Fort Hood in Killeen, Texas, when a veteran from the Iraq war shot and killed three people, wounded sixteen, and then killed himself.

I remember praying to God that night.

I only pray when things are really bad.

I remember hearing about the shooting in Marysville, Washington, when a fifteen-year-old student shot and killed four people and then himself in his high school’s cafeteria.

I remember praying to God that night.

I only pray when things are really bad.

In June of 2015, I remember hearing about a shooting that occurred in a black church in Charleston. Nine people died, including the Reverend. My dad was pretending not to cry. Our food was untouched.

I prayed to God that night.

I only pray when things are really bad.

Chattanooga happened next.

Then Roseburg.

Then Colorado Springs.

With each, my dad pretended not to cry.

I prayed.

I only pray when things get bad.

I remember being glued to the TV when the shooting in San Bernardino, California, was ensuing. I remember my history teacher sitting in her seat, her hand covering her dropped jaw, tears at her waterline.

She dropped her head on her desk and prayed.

I did not.

I was sitting back and enjoying my summer when a notification popped up. “Forty-nine killed, fifty-three injured in a mass shooting at Pulse Nightclub in Orlando.” I sat up and tried not to cry, not wanting to wake my parents. I did not touch my food. My father cried.

I did not pray.

I watched as terrified police officers were picked off, one-by-one, in Dallas. Five died, protecting their citizens. My father cried.

I did not pray.

I was sitting at my desk in my dorm room, doing homework when I first heard it. “There has been a mass shooting in Las Vegas. The gunman is still active.” Suddenly chemistry was not that important. I watched as terrified people ran from the scene, as EMS, medics, nurses, doctors, and others ran into the scene to try to help anyone that was still breathing, getting themselves shot in the process.

I heard the cries from the hospital staff that took in the trauma. I saw the nurses with bloodstained scrubs and bloodshot eyes. I saw the doctors with the faces of death. I saw the line of people wrapped around blood banks to donate.

The sick bastard that did this killed himself. “Coward!” I thought.

My roommate and I sat on her bed, holding each other, neither of us speaking. I did not eat. I did not touch my food. I’m sure that my father cried.

I prayed.

I had lost my faith in God until that point and it was still quite shaky and still is, but my God I prayed and prayed and prayed.

Fifty-eight dead.

Five-hundred+ injured.

Every cell in my body told me to fly to Las Vegas, to help in any way I could, but my brain reminded me that there’s nothing I could do.

I think back to when I picked up that .22 and fired.

I felt so guilty.