Prologue #3
I feel icy sweat trickling down my spine as my thoughts stop racing, replaced with exhausting relief.
Mrs Oberman looks as weakly, passionately relieved as I feel as our eyes meet.
She holds her hands over her bump protectively, as though hoping they could shield her baby from what’s happening.
Her baby that’s sleeping inside her, with no idea of guns and murder and the kind of Scarface-times-a-billion shit this evening turned into.
I rest my head against the wall. Just gotta stay here and stay silent until help arrives.
If it arrives? Who’s left that’s going to be able to call for help?
I check, but my cell’s not in my pocket, and if it’s not there then I don’t know where it is, shit, shit .
Will people outside hear the gunfire? The school is close to other businesses, but they’re all shut at this time of night.
Surely eventually our parents and Mrs Oberman’s husband will notice that we haven’t come home and -
Mrs O is waving at me to get my attention.
She holds up a bunch of keys, one in particular, and points at the door.
Understanding immediately, I look towards the door.
Sounds like maybe he’s far enough down the corridor.
If we’re careful, if I lock the door really slowly and quietly… maybe we can do this.
So I nod at her and hold my cupped hands out, ready to catch them.
She concentrates hard, eyes narrowing as she aims, and then throws.
They jingle slightly as they leave her hands…but that’s nothing to the noise they make when they bounce off my chest, through my frantic fumbling hands, and clatter to the floor. Metal on thin carpet, loud and ringing. I should have made that catch. I didn’t.
I just killed us both.
There’s silence as we stare at each other in horror, listening for him. His footsteps get louder and he’s sniggering, and… OH GOD.
I grab the keys and try to lock the door, but the door handle rattles hard as Mr Whitmire yells, “GOTCHA, FUCKERHEADS!”
SON OF A BITCH -
I grab the handle and fight with all the strength I have left to hold it tight, dropping the keys in the struggle, but in a battle between a terrified teenager with sweaty hands and a madman with the power of rage in his every move, it’s no contest.
We don’t stand a chance.
I manage to kick the door shut again in the spaces between the chairs just as the door starts to open.
It hits him somehow, and I hear his shout of pain.
Maybe I got his fingers or maybe his sick fucking head, I don’t know, but my triumph is replaced by cold horror that I just pissed off a psycho with a gun.
I scrabble backwards, and my right arm buckles because the wound still burns.
He’s swearing, and kicks and then shoots the door, blowing a massive hole in it and smashing through the chairs.
I crawl, I struggle into a standing position and run towards the window because I’ll jump out of it, I’ll fucking jump out of the window and break my leg because bones heal but being shot dead won’t, and if I run in a different direction from where poor, cringing Mrs Oberman is trying to hide it might just distract him enough to protect her, protect her, protect her, I should have protected Callie, oh my god, OH MY GOD -
Game over.
The door crashes open and I hear someone yelling, “NO, NO, NO!” in a terrified voice like a frightened kid, and I realize it was me, I’m the frightened kid with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, just as my upper back and my throat explode.
I make a terrible sound like the dry heave of strangulation and slump like the dead weight I’ve become, hitting my head on the floor, and a warm gush of thick liquid runs out of my neck.
So this is what dying feels like . There’s no pain, no breathing, no air, just drowning.
Drowning and choking on my own blood. Only the warm, wet, disgusting gurgle of rushing death, and a pregnant woman I was supposed to save screaming for help, and then she’s silent as the M-16 fires once more.
Hi there –
My name is Dean, and I’ll be your tattoo artist today.
A quick point before we start: I am completely 100% mute.
This is due to an injury I sustained during a mass shooting in America, where I am originally from.
Yes, it was one of the well-known mass shootings.
No, I definitely do not want to talk about it (which is useful, given that I can’t talk), so please do not ask me anything about it.
Suffice it to say, I don’t like guns at all, I emigrated to get away from them, and, having been a victim of gun violence, I hold the unshakeable opinion that gun control needs to be more of a thing in my country.
End of discussion, and I will end your appointment early if this subject is raised again, even if your tattoo is incomplete.
Boundaries are healthy, y’all, and that’s one of mine.
Please let me know any of yours so I can return the favor if needed.
Now, you may be thinking this will make your session rather quiet and stilted.
Maybe even awkward. It ain’t necessarily so, my friend.
Think about it. You can talk to me about anything you want, and 1) I won’t be able to tell you to pipe down if you go on and on, and 2) I am guaranteed to be able to keep it all 100% confidential.
Tell me all about your secret affair with the mailman.
Tell me why you hate your asshat boss, or your in-laws.
Practice your TED Talk on me. I’ll take it all to the grave.
If you need me to answer any questions that require more than a nod or a shake of my head, it’s all good: I have an iPad I can type on, and if the battery dies on that, I have a pen and paper. Or I’ll just tattoo the answer to your question on you. Kidding! Probably.
Nice to meet you, and let’s get started.
Dean Gastright
PS: I’m sure this doesn’t need saying, but you’d be surprised how often this happens: I’m mute, not deaf, nor cognitively impaired, so there is no need to shout at me or to speak slowly .