Black.
Where am I?
God, it's so cold here...
Is this the lake again?
I'm floating...
It's kind of nice.
What is that sound?
Footsteps?
Hammering?
Gunshots!
Oh no...
Don't!
Don't kill her!
I jerked upward, wrapped in a sweat soaked sheet; another nightmare, this one more painful. I freed myself from the sheet and moved to sit on the edge of my bed. My shirt was sweaty too, so I pulled it off and rested my damp forehead in my left hand, trying to think about something other than death. The hand still hurt from beating Fish.
Rising to my feet, I shook my head, hoping to shake the thoughts from my mind. It didn't help, of course. It never did. The dreams had quickly become a nightly event. Or, "nightmare" was probably a more apt description. If it wasn't reliving the night at Demon Lake then it was reliving watching Lisa die. It was that or worse. It was dreaming of leaving Bradan to drown instead of pulling him out. It was being shot and killed myself. It was lying on the floor of the school hallway watching as all of my classmates were ruthlessly gunned down.
It was the amplification of the empty feeling inside, which didn't even make sense to me. If the feeling was of emptiness, nothingness, how could it be amplified? How could there be more of nothing? To my clouded mind it didn't make sense and to my aching heart, it felt like just a little more death. I began to wonder yet again just how much more of this I could take before wanting nothing more than to end it all.
The clock on my phone told me it was 4:40 in the morning, well before the time that I usually woke up. I didn't feel like going back to sleep though, even if I could have. The door to my room was closed, so I tried to open it as carefully as possible to avoid having the loud creaking sound echo through the house. In the still of the early morning hours, the creaking sounded like a trumpet blaring, regardless of how slowly I pulled the door.
With another shake of my head, I realized that mom would probably be up already anyway, getting ready for her shift at the hospital. She'd gotten a steady schedule of working 6 am to 6 pm, four
days a week, though she often had to work extra days or extended shifts. Such is the life of an emergency room nurse, I supposed.
I didn't get to see her very much, but I understood that she worked where she did because she loved helping people and because it paid well enough to live comfortably. I knew being a single mom couldn't have been easy on her all these years, so I tried my best to not make it any harder, though I failed at that often enough.
I walked groggily to the kitchen and found a note on the counter there; that said, "Jamie, I got called in early today. If you need anything call me! And if you don't feel up to going back to school yet don't worry about it. You can take as much time as you need, Honey. I love you! -Mom"
I turned away from the note and with a sigh, I opened the refrigerator to find a half-eaten pizza and a jug of sweet tea. A slight smile crept across my face then, thoughts of delicious food pushing aside the remaining drowsiness. I grabbed the pizza box and the sweet tea and turned to the counter behind me.
After putting the pizza in the microwave and setting it for a minute and a half I grabbed a big plastic cup and filled it to the brim with ice and tea. Once the pizza was done I took it and my tea and shuffled back to my room where I sat on my futon, which was currently in the shape of a couch, and started eating. The pizza burned my mouth a bit at first, but the big cup of sweet ice tea took care of that problem right away.
My mind wondered as I pigged out. Today was to be the first day back at school, but I didn't know if I was ready for that. I didn't want to see all of the people and their judgments. The police hadn't
charged me with any crimes, as the evidence pointed to me shooting Ericka in an attempt to save Lisa. I didn't tell anyone that Lisa was already dead and bleeding on the ground before I pulled the trigger. What I did was an emotional response to the tragedy of Lisa's murder. I wasn't going to lie to myself about the reality of the situation, but I certainly wasn't going to tell the authorities that either.
I wondered if a normal person would feel compelled to confess. Sure, I felt guilty, somewhat, for what I'd done, but I also knew that Ericka and Dylan both deserved every bit of the pain that they got. My mind replayed the incident in its entirety, as it had done almost constantly since it had happened. Was there something that I could have done differently, something that would have saved Lisa? I rose from the futon, tossing a piece of pizza crust on my small coffee table and making my way to my bathroom.
The mirror was a rather harsh critic, hiding nothing from me. I stood in front of it for a while, staring in apprehension at what had happened to my body. My recently dislocated right shoulder still
throbbed constantly, as did my casted right hand, and my left hand was cut up from repeatedly hitting Fish in the face and dark purple spots sat here and there as if randomly placed on my body. The outer wounds, as painful as they were, didn't begin to compare to what was on the inside.
Somehow, I knew I'd be okay. As I looked at my battered self in the mirror, seeing the boy within, I began to see that the belief that I would be okay might be all that it would take for me to actually be okay. Another thought came into my mind as I stood there: How long had it been since I'd had a shower?
A couple of steps brought me to the tub, where I turned the hot water knob as far as it would go, then turned the cold about halfway. I carefully removed my sling before pulling off the rest of my
clothes. I couldn't get my cast wet, but I also couldn't lift my arm above my head. I shuffled over to the bathroom sink and opened the cabinet door underneath. A couple of plastic grocery store bags were there for use in the small trash can next to the toilet. I took one and put my casted hand into it, wrapping and tying it as best as I could with my left.
The warm water felt good, as though it were washing away some of the grime of pain and death. I stood under the stream of water as it heated and relaxed my tired and worn muscles. I couldn't
remember any shower I'd ever taken bringing such relief as this one did. The water began to run cold after a time, but I didn't move. The cooling water was now refreshing where the warmth had been relaxing.
Eventually, feeling a little cleaner, I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. I grabbed a clean towel off of the towel bar and dried off as swiftly as I could manage, leaving the towel draped
over my head. I took off the plastic bag around my cast, wadded it up and dropped it in the trash can.
My dresser held the clothes that I was looking for: a faded pair of blue jeans and my favorite black shirt, along with some fresh underclothes. With just a bit of joy, I noticed that getting dressed was
slightly easier than it had been just a couple of days ago. Putting on socks proved to still be a pain in the ass, though. Once finished I checked my phone to see that it was nearly 6:30. A notification box popped up on screen at that moment; a text from Oliver.
"You coming to school today bro? I totally understand if you
aren't. Just let me know! I can pick you up if you want!"
"I'm all dressed up so I suppose I can make an appearance.
See you there," I texted back.
I tossed my phone onto my bed and turned back to sit on the futon. Most of my early breakfast still sat spread across the small table in front of me. I picked up my television remote and turned on the TV. It was already set to the local news. A plump woman with long blonde hair was talking into the camera.
"With me in the studio today is a man who has an interesting take on the recent shooting that took place at Angel Grove High School just one week ago; the acclaimed author of "Children of Violence," and noted gun-control advocate, Stephen Hicks. Mr. Hicks, thank you for being here with me today. What do you make of this latest in the long line of cruel tragedies?"
"Thank you, Sandra, as always it's a pleasure to be here. To be frank with you, I'm appalled that this sort of thing is still happening."
The man being interviewed looked to be in his forties. His hair was dark brown flecked with gray, and he wore and smooth navy blue blazer over a white button down. His slacks matched his blazer and stood out against the deep black of his loafers.
"Appalled? Could you elaborate, Stephen?"
"Well, I mean that the fact that kids like the two shooters at Angel Grove High have access to guns of any kind is outrageous in my opinion. I firmly believe that had those kids not had access to the
weapons with which they murdered innocent people, those people would still be alive." The man, Stephen Hicks, seemed to have an air of superiority about him that I could sense even through the pixels of my television screen.
"And how did they get ahold of those weapons?" Sandra asked politely.
"According to the police they were obtained by the male shooter. Apparently, he took them from a safe in the basement of his home. It seems that his father, who he killed with a butcher knife
before school on that fateful Monday, had several stolen weapons locked away down there. It's anybody's guess as to how his son learned the combination. It's exactly this sort of thing that I hate. How did the father obtain all of those weapons? Why did he have them? If the people would give gun control a chance I think that we could stop so many terrible instances like this one." The man scarcely seemed to take a breath in between sentences, as if he had to get it all out while he had the opportunity.
"Stephen, something else that is on everyone's mind is the young
Jamie Anderson. It could be argued that his experience is the worst of
all."
"My heart goes out to Jamie. I can't imagine what the boy is feeling right now, having to use one of these weapons on another person all in the hopes of saving the life of an innocent girl, and all to no avail."
I snorted. This guy had no idea. None of them did, but they still got paid to sit on screen and talk about it as if they actually understood.
Hicks continued, "I hope the boy gets the help he needs. All too often its instances like this that send someone over the edge. I'd hate for Jamie to head down the wrong path as a result of what he's been through."
Before I knew it my remote was flying across the room. It barely missed my TV, shattering against the wall just behind it. I was sitting on the edge of my futon, fury rising within. I yelled, then, as loud as I possibly could. I yelled in rage, screamed in despair. How could this man sit there and place judgment on me? Talk as though I was the fucked up one in the scenario? Yeah, I killed Ericka, and I didn't know if I'd ever get over that, but she deserved it. Now they're worried about me turning out like her?
I couldn't believe the man's gall. At that moment I knew that if I were in that studio with Stephen Hicks he'd have left with a busted lip instead of that smug expression he wore as the camera finally
panned away from him. I walked over to the TV and pushed the power button. I'd been trying not to take my pain meds, thinking that I'd just deal with the pain, but just then I didn't care about that. I just wanted to numb the pain. I swallowed two of the pills dry before putting on my jacket and grabbing my backpack and phone.
I needed to walk.