It was the first day back at school since the incident. The statement throbbed in my head, as I began to awake from the brief slumber I had been fortunate to have. I rubbed my eyes slightly, and turned to my alarm clock to see it agreeing with the morning’s brightening sky.  Dread shook my core. How could they expect me to go back into that building, where so many lives were lost? People had died and I was being forced to go back into my schedule. Did the school know that throughout the day our classes would be filled with silence instead of education? Terror rolled into me at the thought of going back.
Eventually my mother came into my room and forced me to reveal myself from the covers I had been hiding under.
“Wake up darling,” Her cheerful voice had an edge. “It’s a beautiful day, you don’t want to waste it.”
She didn’t understand that I was still mourning over the lives I barely knew. The drive consisted of her trying to have a conversation with me, while I gazed out the window and didn’t speak a word. Trees outside caught my sight as we drove, and as soon as I attempted to study them, they were gone.  She pulled into the high school’s parking lot, where I would continue my first semester of junior year. I stared out at the school that was no longer home to me. The concrete walls were sturdy and stood strong, unlike the walls that held my heart. Strangely, it looked the same as it did before the incident. The paint still appeared fresh and unchipped, ready to welcome me back. I had expected it to look as nauseating as I felt.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the car. My legs shook slighty, my heels grounded to the pavement ground. RUN, my mind screamed. GET OUT OF HERE.There was no safety net to catch me here. Squeezing my eyes to fight back tears, I took a step forward. Then another. Small steps left bits of anxiety behind me as I slowly made my way through the entrance.   Students and teachers had tears in their eyes, and they comforted each other. The glass windows that once filled the main doors were now vacant. The shattered glass would have been a health hazard and would have made everyone even more emotional than they already were. My chest tightened at the thought of seeing any stray bullets left on the carpet floor. Probably not, they would have made sure all  evidence of the event was hidden.  I avoided making contact with anybody as I made my way to my first block class. They would hug me and tell me how grateful they were that I was okay, when in actuality I was far from it.
My first class of the day was history. Before the incident, my classroom had been completely full of teens that were laughing and throwing notes across the room. They whispered secrets to each other and giggled as the teacher was deep in discussion over a topic nobody cared about. I stepped into the room and made my way to my desk. It wasn’t assigned, but it had been my seat since the first day of school and I have had enough change for the year. Students used to argue about seats in the room, because there never seemed to be enough. Now, just a few other kids and I were scattered around the room of empty desks that encompassed us.
The teacher welcomed us back in a soft tone. His bulky figure was slouched in his seat as he stared at the ceiling, blinking away threatening tears. He called out for attendance gently, despite the fact that only a few of us that remained.  After a bit, silence rolled into the room. Memories fled my mind of him once shaking with laughter, and I wondered if he now shook with sobs. He seemed to be lost for words. We all were. I didn’t want to be here and I didn’t understand how everyone else could just accept what happened. They appeared to have already moved on, when  I was still caught up in the haunting memories of the tragedy.The block dragged on and my mind wandered far from the lesson that only acted as a placeholder for our tears. As soon as the bell rang I jumped from my seat and sprinted out of the room.
My next block would be the room I had been in during the incident. The shooting. The kid who had did it had been extremely bullied, and I suppose he just had enough of it. He externalized his pain by forcing it upon others. His inner demons took control, and he ran around the school shooting innocent souls. The people who had bullied him didn’t deserve it either. They didn’t deserve to die. Anger was overshadowed with the sympathy I held for him, despite the fact I knew I should be furious. Instead of going to my next class with my healing peers, I decided to escape to the gym. I was positive that nobody would find me in there. Maybe I could escape this feeling of helplessness. The shooting started in the gym, since it was the kid’s class at the time. The gym separated from the rest of the school, so he thought that nobody would hear the gunshots. He was wrong, because I heard them. I continue to hear them in the nightmares that haunt the darkest parts of my mind. It was impossible for me to escape the images of that day. Everytime I begin to forget, the graphic scenes flashes back into my mind sharply, reminding me of the terror. Reminding me of the fear.  The lights of the gym were dimmed, and I silently made my way to the bleachers. ‘Caution- Crime Scene’ tape divided the gym in half, and was almost the only thing in the school that showed the incident ever happened. I passed the trophy case, glass shattered and spread everywhere. A deflated basketball with teenager signatures was set on the floor beside it.  Honored names once written in celebration were  now written on obituaries. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to shake off the guilt. I felt guilty that the junior class president had been shot and died of internal injuries. I felt guilty that a freshman girl tried to run away, but he was too fast. I couldn’t help but feel this weight on my shoulders because these teens didn’t deserve to die. I should feel so grateful that I was alive but I couldn’t help but feel burdened by it.
I picked up the deflated basketball, and set it back into the trophy case. The scribbled names deserved to be remembered. I was curious of how they would feel if they had survived. Would they be angry with the situation like I was? Would the emptiness in their chest keep them awake at night? The silence was screaming, and I needed to get out of the gym before I lost all sanity I had left.
My heart pounded and I bolted out of the gym exit that led outside to the parking lot. I ran as fast as I could, for the teens who didn’t get a chance to run for their lives. I ran for the boy who was so bullied that he was convinced his only option was the unthinkable. I wanted to hate him for what he did, I truly did. He cruelly stripped life away from teens who had their entire lives ahead of them. So why did my heart bleed sadness for him?
I slowed my pace and sat on the curb of a sidewalk. I wasn’t strong enough to hold back the tears I had been trying so hard to avoid, and I let them fall from my eyes.
“Deep breaths,” I whispered shakily. I stayed in place until my tears slowed down.
Wiping my runny nose with my sleeve, I turned and looked back at the school that was only a few yards away. Bitter waves of exhaustion washed over me, as faint snowflakes fell gently from the sky. Christmas was coming up in a few weeks, and the poor families of those lost would be mourning over the wrapped gifts their child would never open. Never again would they sit at Thanksgiving dinner and be grateful their family was healthy and safe.
I had been in math when the incident happened, and my dreams remind me every night of the specific detail. I remember how casual he had been when he walked into the room. The first thing I had noticed was how awkwardly his dark jeans hung on his waist. A black hoodie was draped over his torso, his hands relaxed in the front pocket. My teacher opened her mouth in curiosity, when he made is move. He swiftly removed his hand from his pocket, revealing the black shotgun. Students cried and screamed in fear, falling to the ground and ducking for cover. I remained in my seat, watching his every move in slow motion as he fired around the room. When he assumed his work was done, he left the room, snapping me out of my daze. The teacher was crying uncontrollably, and kept repeating, “What do we do?” But none of us knew. A sophomore boy jumped up and locked the door, despite the fact that it was too late. He had acquired the fear he craved from us. I don’t think my brain processed what happened until I turned to my left to see the girl that sat next to me bleeding. Her blue eyes that once shone so bright were open, but they were dull. She was gone, lying lifeless and crippled beside me.
They would have wanted me to move on; that’s what everyone tells me. My parents have told me that, along with my teachers, friends, and the therapist they were forcing me to see. I don’t doubt it, either. They suffered so much during the incident. They would want the suffering to be gone, but my thoughts are torturing me. The pain and emptiness I feel in my heart makes me numb. The painful memories in my mind make it impossible to focus on anything else.
I remained sitting on the curb until I heard the bell ringing, declaring that second block was over. After a moment passed, I slowly stood up. I would finish the rest of the day, I decided, for the innocent souls that wouldn’t ever have the opportunity to attend school again. I knew that no matter how much I tried to move on, I would never be able to enter my second block classroom again. It would be torture sitting in my seat, intimidated by the unknown. Intimidated by the known.
I took my time as I walked back into the distant school. The woman at the front desk smiled knowingly, and unlocked the door to the main entrance. I made my way through the empty hallway until I found myself in front of my third block class. It had already began. Taking a deep breath, I opened the dense door and walked in. There were more students in the class than in my first block, but the empty essence of the room was inevitable. My first instincts told me to turn and run, that I wasn’t safe. Ignoring them, I made my way to my seat as my teacher kindly called my name for attendance.
“Welcome back,” She said in an attempting-to-be-cheerful voice, and I nodded ever so slightly. This was just another day of life that I would have to get through. This was my first step in healing.. I was a survivor, and I needed to move on for the sake of the victims who couldn’t. If I allowed the labyrinth of my fears to encircle my heart, I would be letting him win. And I was not going to grant him the power to dominate my life. The teacher finished attendance and we went on with class, accepting the fact that a few of the desks would remain empty.