Some prosish thing for school

Doesn't really have a title.

    "I guess I should have never gotten up. Nope…never. But I don’t really regret it. I don’t regret standing up, or brushing my teeth. I don’t regret brushing my hair, or ever slapping on the tie dye shirt my sister made for me. And I certainly don’t regret my position on the war.
    Damn Hawks. Heh…that’s my excuse for every thing. Yup, those damned Hawks always following the government blindly like some sort of slave in golden chains. It’s pathetic I tell you, pathetic! Real pathetic. And all they do is stick on their gas masks, and shoot at us!
    It’s terrible…
    You asked me about my life. And, at twenty-three, this was my life, every little bit of it."
    The reporter paused, staring into nothing. This was obviously not what he was expecting. Smiling, and leaning back into his chair, he broke into a long, fake, though well done laugh. After he died down, and after rubbing a tear from his eye, he looked straight into my eyes, his face never stirring. It was unnerving.
    “Okay so, that was your life?”
    “Every bit.” I claimed, smiling a toothy grin.
    He looked down at his paper, obviously nervious, and clearly not sure of how he wanted to ask the next question.
    “How’d you die?”
    “I was shot.”
    “Who?”
    “Some government pig…” I stated.
    “Some government pig eh? Well--”
    “Yeah…”
    “Well why don’t you give me some more information? A…type of lead in to the last moments of your life. No one will read this. After all…you’re dead. So, tell me anything, and everything.”
    “More information? Hmm…well, alright.”

    It was May 4, 1970. We were having a protest down at Kent State. It was supposed to be non violent. Just a peace rally in order to stop the war. You know, it had happened a million times. One in a few times, it had gone bad. This time, well, if you ask me, it went pretty bad. We went out there like some sort of army for peace. We raised our pickets, and slung rocks into windows. At one point, some kids tried to even burn down the ROTC building. It was…a riot.
    As we expected, the national guard soon came along to end our activities. Well, not end, more like just make sure we didn’t get outta hand. We did, naturally, and they threw tear gas at us. A few of us, turned, and threw them back. They didn’t like that. And it’s not as if it mattered, they had gas masks anyhow.
    And from there. It went as normal. All I did was surf through the crowd, coughing from the pigs gas, along with a few pot fumes. We still sang our antiwar songs, and held up our picket signs. And…
    It happened.
    The men turned, their ID tags now on the floor, their guns raised to our level. One was in the front, aiming his pistol at a young man, who had his bird flying. The others, had their rifles raised.
    And then…
    Boom.
    They all had fired their weapons into the crowd. I don’t know why, I never will know why. But they did. In fact, they were just leaving, and just before they did, they shot. And…one, I think hit me.
      I hadn’t actually smoked. Nope, none that day. I ran out, and I didn’t have the money for food if I had bought more. I consider myself a bit more sensible than that. So I know my pain, that small bee sting like feeling that appeared in my torso, was no joke. No, not a joke at all. Something, had torn through me. It was like a burning fire raging through my stomach. And I wanted to throw up, but I couldn’t.
    All I could do was cough. And even when I did that, a sick, awful taste arose in my mouth, and, I spit it out, all over the grassy field.
    It was red. Blood red.
    There was screaming I assume, but, I didn’t hear it. The world just kinda slowed down. All I could really do was stare into the red stain I had placed on the earth, and embrace the fuzzy outter shell that surrounded me as I fell to the ground. Everything was soft, real soft. I’m not even sure now, looking back on it, that I could feel, or hear anything. All I could see, and understand, was the growing pain in my stomach, and the suffocation in my lungs. I…couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t comprehend why this happened. And so, I closed my eyes. To embrace death, to embrace the simple fact that I, became a martyr.
    If only my father would have been proud.
    The reporter looked to the ground, now seemingly saddened by my tale. Suddenly, he looked up, a wide expression on his face.
    “Son? What’s your name?”
    “Jeffrey Miller. Why?”
    Looking down, and scrawling something on his notepad, he looked up, a grimace tattooed on his face.
    “Nothing…I’m sorry…”

Author's Note

I was supposed to write about a major event in the USA's history, from the perpective of someone who lived it. If you know what it is; 10 points.