My first interaction with Nikolas Cruz happened when I was in seventh grade. I was eating lunch with my friends, most likely discussing One Direction or Ed Sheeran, when a sudden pain consumed my lower back. The sheer force of the blow knocked the wind out of my 90-pound body; tears stung my eyes. I turned around and saw him, smirking. I had never seen this boy before, but I would never forget his face. His eyes were lit up with a sick, twisted joy as he watched me cry.
The apple that he had thrown at my back rolled slowly along the tiled floor. A cafeteria aide ran to ask if I was O.K. I don’t remember if he was confronted for his actions, but in my 12-year-old naïveté, I trusted that the adults around me would take care of the situation.
Five years later, after hiding in a dark closet at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, I would discover just how wrong I was.
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