Chapter 17
Drew
T
o say I have not been sleeping well would be an understatement because to not be sleeping well, I would have to actually be falling asleep. The past two nights, I have been staying in a state of being asleep but not deep enough to get any rest, waking up more tired than I was the night before.
I don’t know how long I can keep this up, but I have no intention of letting myself revisit the place my mind took me last time I fell into a deep sleep.
While still lying in bed, I reach under my pillow to grab the remote to turn off the TV in my bedroom. It has been playing through season three of New Girl for two nights straight, and I know I will be picking up where I left off when I get back in bed tonight. I connect my phone to the speaker in my living room. All Time Low begins to play as I get myself out of bed.
I go through my morning routine of brushing my teeth, washing my face, but not changing out my pajamas. It’s not like I have anywhere I need to be for a today, and my oversized t-shirt and shorts that barely cover my butt are appropriate for the day I have planned of sitting on my couch and starting the daunting, time-consuming feat of watching all of the Marvel movies in chronological order.
I head into the kitchen to make some coffee. I throw out the old filter and grounds, letting a few yawns out as I do so, and I realize my garbage is about to overflow. Today is Thursday, and I’m pretty sure I haven’t taken out my garbage since this time last week. I pull the bag out by the strings and tie it up. My apartment is only a three doors down from a garbage chute, so I quickly go dispose of the bag hoping not to run into anyone in my current attire.
When I’m back in my apartment, my coffee is ready for me. I grab the same mug I’ve been using and washing and using again from the sink and fill it with coffee before adding some of my holiday creamer: Frosted Sugar Cookie. I bring the mug to my lips to find the perfect blend of bitterness and sweetness and then sit back on the couch.
I hear my phone buzzing on the other side of my wall in the bedroom, but I have no intention of looking at it. Instead, I queue up Captain America and turn off the music playing as I press play. I watch the opening scenes and sip on my coffee.
As the movie plays, I am reminded how this is probably the most boring movies of the MCU. Last time I watched it was in theaters with Lacey, and she still makes fun of me for being the kind of person who falls asleep in a movie theater.
I try to power through it, finishing my coffee and covering myself with a blanket, but I feel my eyelids getting heavy despite the caffeine. My brain is not staying entertained with the scenes playing out on the screen, so I sit myself upright, not wanting to doze off and decide that this movie can be video wallpaper while I read, only needing to pay attention to the exciting parts. I take the blanket off my legs before getting up to walk over to my bookshelf.
Before Friday, my plans for Winter Break were a rotation of sleeping, reading, and watching movies. Those three things are my version of self-care which is what teachers are always reminded to do during breaks. Safe to say, I’ve been doing two of those three things religiously because they are also perfect for keeping my mind off of what happened the day before break.
Unfortunately for me, I am actively trying to avoid the other, even though it was what I was most looking forward to spending my break doing.
As I round the couch, a few steps away from my book shelf, I hear my phone buzz a few more times in my bedroom, and I’m starting to get a little curious as to why it’s going off so much. I head to the bedroom to grab it and find that my school and the district sent a handful of emails out.
I sit down on the edge of my bed and open up the notifications. The first one is an email containing a notice from the superintendent that will be sent to families later today. It’s a notice about the school being closed for the two weeks following Winter Break to allow for the school and surrounding community to recuperate. They had let staff know about this, but they were now officially telling families too.
The next email is from my principal highlighting ways teachers can cope, and the last three are from HR and contain resources about how to recover.
Recuperate, rest, cope, recover.
All things we need to do after what happened to us.
After living through what we lived through.
After a school shooting.
This is not how I planned to spend my Winter Break.
I scroll through the links, but the titles alone give me a visceral reaction.
”Coping in the Aftermath”
“Crisis Management”
“Survivors: what happens now?”
I feel my heartbeat quickening, hearing the thumping in my ears. My chest starts to feel tight as my lungs strain to fill with air.
This can’t be a normal reaction, and I can’t keep burying these feelings. It’s no wonder they keep trying to claw their way out.
But, against my better judgement, I close out the Gmail app and throw my phone on my bed because I don’t know if I can face these feelings alone.
I find an ounce of relief but still feel anxious and unsettled, ignoring the realization in the back of my mind that I have no control over when I’m brought back to that place, these feelings getting stronger the more I push them away.
I walk back into my kitchen hoping that making myself something to eat may settle these feelings. I open the freezer, the slight flurry that greets me helps my adrenaline further subside. I reach in, grabbing two frozen waffles before putting the box back and closing the door. I walk over to the corner of my kitchen with my toaster and drop the two waffles into the slots, pulling the little lever down, watching them disappear between the heating metal.
I head back into my living room to turn up the TV. Not that I’m even watching Captain America anymore, but I want to be surrounded by more noise. I’m momentarily distracted by Captain America and Red Skull’s fight scene, when I hear a sudden pop behind me. All of a sudden, my heart jumps into my throat, and I throw myself to the ground the noise sounding all too familiar.
I squeeze my eyes shut as I’m all of a sudden back in my classroom thinking of all the ways I could contort my body to cover as many of my students as possible.
I’m frozen.
Can’t move.
Can’t think.
Can’t breathe.
I don’t know how long I’m there, a few minutes at least, frozen on the floor of my living room. Then, just beyond my palms plastered against my ears, I hear three quiet knocks on my door. I squeeze my eyes tighter, balling my hands into fists, bringing them together at my chest, reopening the cuts that were beginning to heal, scared to breathe.
From the other side of the door, I hear a level voice.
“Drew?” My knees squeeze up further into my abdomen. “Are you okay?”
I don’t move.
I can’t find my voice.
I can’t find my breath.
“I heard a loud noise. It sounded like a fall.” A pause. Then again, “Drew?”
The voice speaking to me is clear and monotone, almost like he doesn’t want to alarm me. I hear the doorknob twist slightly, and my chest feels like it’s about to explode. My body is paralyzed in fear as I realize I forgot to lock the door when I came back from throwing my garbage away this morning
“Drew? It’s Emmett. The door is unlocked. I’m going to slowly open the door and come in, okay?”
Eyes still clamped shut, body still glued to the floor, I hear the whisper of footsteps walk through the entryway, through the kitchen, getting closer to me. The smell of burning waffles ruminating in the air.
“Drew, it’s okay.” He pauses, probably looking around. “I think your toaster popped your waffles out. It must have caught you off guard.” His voice is just a few feet above me as he explains the scene to both himself and me. I hear his voice again, and it’s closer. He must be kneeling next to me. “It’s okay. You’re in your apartment.” He doesn’t try to touch me, but I can feel his presence around me. “You’re safe.”
I slowly uncurl my fists and lengthen my body from the fetal position I was in. I let my arms spread from my body, and my palms sting as the air meets my reopened wounds. I set my hands down on the floor to stop them from shaking as I peel open my eyes and push up from the floor to rest on my elbows. My eyes prickle a little as my tears meet the air and as I adjust to the light.
“Can you stand?” Emmett asks. His voice is tender and nurturing, two words I never would have used to describe him until today.
I feel his eyes on me, concerned and burning into me like he has no intention of looking away. I slowly nod once, pushing pressure through my arms into my palms, pushing my body up a little more so I’m in a sitting position.
Emmett reaches his hand out to me to help me stand, but I hesitate a moment. My eyes are cloudy, and my brain is foggy. I’m unsure of how I should be reacting or responding at this moment. But I take his hand anyway, the warmth of him taking over me as if it was injected into my veins.
He closes his hand around mine, and I don’t know if he doesn’t notice the cuts in my palms or chooses to ignore them. Regardless, the relief I feel is almost instant. I feel my lungs fill with air again. My heart beat begins to slow. My body releases the tension it held during those moments I was brought back to the only time in my life I felt true fear.
Fear for my life.
Fear for the ones I love most.
As I stand, I feel Emmett’s other arm slowly wrap around my waist to help me balance. It’s like every move he makes is slow and calculated, as if wanting me to feel his movements before he makes them. As if he’s scared I’ll see him as a threat.
He helps me take the few steps to my couch, ushering me to sit. His eyes never leave me. I sit, and he follows, his hand still gently holding mine, his arm never untangling from around me. My breathing is still a little fast. My heart beat still slightly filling my ears.
Then, without a word, Emmett takes a deep breath in, and I turn to meet his gaze. Without even thinking about it, I copy his lifted chest and open mouth with a deep breath of my own. I fill my whole body up before matching his exhale and letting it all go. I feel my mind clear a little more.
We do the same thing two more times, still without exchanging anything aside from our gazes, still in his arms.
After I let out a final exhale, feeling like I can breathe normally again, he asks, “Are you okay?”
I don’t even take a second to think before saying, “No.”
His lips slightly curl and the worry in his eyes begins to fade as he moves the arm from around my waist to brush the hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. My cheeks tingle as his fingertips linger.
“And, that’s okay,” he says.