Butler, PA— Wednesday, July 10. I was watching television in my living room. My dad walked in and off the cuff asked, “Hey, Trump is coming to Butler on Saturday for a rally. Tickets are free, want to go check it out?” I replied, “Sure, why not?” as I had little more to do than my online classes. Unbeknownst to me, that off-handed reply had just pledged me to witness the former president getting shot in a fairground in Butler, PA, for me, right at home.

The day finally arrived, and my father and I left for Butler around 1:30 p.m., as the event was to start after 3 p.m., due to the expected high turnout.

After a short ride, we arrived at 2 p.m. As we walked onto the grounds, the outskirts of the event looked like any other county fair. Pop-up stands and food trucks selling everything from hotdogs and lemonade to funnel cake and deep-fried Oreos, true delicacies of Butler. We got in line for the metal detectors behind thousands of other people, waiting in the Pennsylvania heat.

As we slogged through the switchback queue, I heard shouting from the end of the line. I looked back and saw a bald, middle-aged man in a plain white t-shirt with the words “Jan. 6 survivor” written on it in black Sharpie. He was shouting the praises of Trump, but in a way, you would see a street preacher.

Once we had made our way through security, I took a look around at the layout of the event. It was a large grassy area where we would stand to listen, but what I found strange was the only thing separating the people inside the event who had gone through security and those who had not was nothing more than a shoulder-high chain link fence.

I also noticed the two-person counter-sniper team located on top of the barn just behind the stands and speaker podium. I remember finding it odd at the time how there was only one station covering the stage, especially due to the presence of many wide-open rooftops with perfect sightlines of the former president. I brushed it off, telling myself that there must be other teams on those rooftops and there was a reason I couldn’t see them.

We made our way to the field and found a spot —150 yards from the podium, in the center of the crowd. Various senators, representatives and candidates came to the stage to give their speeches over the next hour or so. During that time, around 4 p.m., a small drone appeared above the crowd and everyone smiled and waved at it, assuming the footage would be used in some promotional video. Unbeknownst to us, that drone was being controlled by the very individual who would soon attempt to assassinate the former president.

Eventually, around 6 p.m., Trump arrived and made his way to the podium to begin speaking. About 10 minutes into his speech, a chart was displayed on two very large screens flanking him. As he turned to look at the graph depicting illegal immigration statistics over the past decade, it happened.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

I didn’t think they were gunshots, it was the last thought in my mind. Nobody screamed or even ducked, most thought a bunch of kids or protestors had set off some firework poppers to try and disrupt the rally. At first, I heard a series of small pops off to my left, near the building where I had originally assumed another sniper team was located, as it had a perfect sight line to the stage.

Everyone in the crowd around me just looked towards the building as Trump went silent. Five more pops came from the same area followed by two louder pops from atop the barn behind the stage. It finally hit me what was happening, these were gunshots.

As soon as this realization hit me a handful of Secret Service agents came running through the crowd from behind me, shouting, “Get on the ground! Get on the ground!” Everyone in the crowd dropped. I remember laying on my stomach with my right cheek pressing against the dirt, trying to get as low as possible.

The cracked earth felt warm. I prayed.

About 15 seconds after the last shot rang out, I cautiously helped my father to his feet, those around me doing the same. I looked at where the original shots had come from and saw a small cloud of smoke rising from the roof of the building. I looked back to the stage just in time to witness the now iconic image of Trump pumping his fist in the air, shouting, “Fight, fight, fight.” The Secret Service then rushed him off of the stage and into a large blacked-out SUV as the crowd began to chant, “U.S.A, U.S.A, U.S.A.”

On our way out, I saw three figures in military gear standing over a body on top of the roof where the shots came from as well as a medical helicopter flying overhead.

As we passed back by the food stands near the front of the grounds, the man in the white shirt reappeared. He had somehow gotten ahold of a megaphone and began shouting about how “They shot our president!” and “We all need to march to downtown Butler! We need to march downtown!” No one else was with him, nor agreed to “march downtown.”
On the drive home, we learned that Corey Comperatore was killed by the shooter. That medical helicopter must have been for him.

As what seemed like every cop car in the area rushed past us toward the fairground, this was all surreal. The weight of what I had witnessed (or better yet, almost witnessed) sank in. I was millimeters away from witnessing the world change forever.

I am not shocked that this event occurred, I am shocked that I was one of the few to witness it.