No, not the one in D.C., but the one that was located at the end of my next-door neighbor's driveway. It was just there like any other bush, but you could say it took on a unique significance for me on a certain day in my childhood.
Chris lived next door. He was a little older than me, and he loved cats, which was common knowledge of course. But as I recall, he wasn't around when some of us were horsing around on his (or his parents', I should say) front lawn and adjacent sidewalk.
A car was coming up the road, and right at the time the bush was directly between me and the car, I heard a thump thump. It was kind of quiet right after that. I think one or two of my buddies were playing and didn't seem to notice anything strange. Realizing this, I felt an odd aloneness I'm sure I hadn't felt before. Without really putting two and two together, I gradually walked around the bush to see what might have transpired on the street. Before anything, the morbidity crept upon me while gazing at a cat's eye socket protruding a couple inches from its smashed head, which seemed neatly surrounded by a puddle of blood. The morbidity was soon accompanied by fascination as I stood there, just looking. I'm sure the others eventually came around and saw it, but I can't seem to remember that part. What it seemed like was the beginning of darkness; its embryonic seed, if you will; a sickness that said smoothly, automatically: more is on the way.
On February 20, 2003, pyrotechnics at a rock club in West Warwick, RI set off a devastating fire that roared through the crowded club, killing 100 people and injuring hundreds more. Gina Russo was one of the survivors, and she retells her harrowing e
