"I didn't do it. He killed himself," I mutter, almost inaudibly as a crowd begins to forge in and gather in the room.
Unknown people call for the police and the ambulance. I try to drop the gun but there is a powerful force glueing it to my hand. My legs feel numb because of the crushing weight of the dead body. The head of the stranger lies on my thigh and etched on his motionless face is a hideous smile. His lips are tinted with blood and his eyes remain wide open. I can see my reflection in them. Something creeps down, under my skin, at the back of my neck. I can't even move my shoulders as the temperature seems to drop and nausea arises from deep within. The only thing I can move are my lips and the only words I can utter, I keep repeating.
I don't think anyone in this room can understand that I am doing all that I am capable of.
"I didn't do it," I chant continuously, in a low hoarse voice.
A couple of familiar words cross my jinxed mind, shadowed by a surreal, deafening sense of emptiness.
My brain does a 360° and transports me back to my classroom, as the clock strikes eleven am in memory, and I reminisce about my course of thought, trying my hardest to process all actions that followed this morning, within a few seconds as they flash by.