Who fired the first shot? I wish I knew, and I was even there when it happened. It was on the North Bridge in Concord. We were at a face off with the British, when the British captain told his men to lay down their arms. I think that’s what he said; he does have a soft voice. After he said that, a shot rang out and the fight began.

The entire battle feels like a blur to me. I can barely remember what happened. Maybe it’s because I just want to forget. I remember a little though. I remember how lucky I was to have lived. The bullets had hit people right beside me. They may even have been aimed at me. I remember the bullets I shot, and the people they killed. I remember that the battle was bloody and brutal. It was a godsend when it was finally over.

I don’t like dwelling on the battle, but the aftermath was infinitely worse. By then I was completely aware of what was happening. I remember it all too graphically. Almost 50 of us were killed, and almost another 40 were wounded. They were my friends, and they were killed. It was not a particularly large battle, but there were deaths all the same. We had to dispose of the bodies. It was awful to look at other dead humans, even if I didn’t know them. They had ghostly pale faces and their bloody bodies were just lying there in the road.

That bridge, the North Bridge, depresses me anytime I see or hear about it. Anytime I even give it a passing glance, I only visualize the lifeless forms on the bridge, with blood all around them. Whenever it comes up in conversation, all that I can hear is the dying screams of my fellow humans, crying out in agony. These are the reasons I regret I was at that battle. Although now, decades later, I feel a little different. When I recall the events following it, I believe that it might just have been a worthy sacrifice.