Ray

“There was a gunshot. Then another one. It took a moment for me, as well as everyone else, to register the implication of that, to realise what that meant…

“Everyone…froze. No one was prepared for this.

“I looked at Kit beside me. And…and…there was…” The words fail to leave my mouth, as if there were a cloth wrapped around my throat this very minute.

Everything else that happened that day flashes in my mind, in a torrential downpour. My ears were ringing. I could only look as Kit lost his footing and collapsed on the ground, as an angry red liquid pooled around him, gushing out of the gaping hole in his abdomen, all in slow motion. The entire school erupted into pandemonium, with hordes of students rushing into the nearest classroom they could find, which caused chokepoints at several classrooms. Shrieks filled the air as more shots were fired. And all I could do was stand there, right in the open hallway, watching as the light slowly drained from his eyes, as the people around me were fielded into different classrooms, as sirens wailed around me…

All these things flash before my eyes in a flurry, repeating themselves over and over, choking my entire train of thought. The human brain is such a fickle thing. As you stuff things into it, flooding it with pain and grieving and memories, it inflates and inflates and inflates. Until…there comes a point when it can inflate no more. And once that breaking point is hit…

…it bursts. 

I slip into a psychotic rage. I slam my fist on my lap, releasing a feral, ear-piercing scream that lasts for what feels like eternity. My other hand claws at my right lap, as my cognitive functions shut down and my brain enters auto-pilot, directed only by the noxious fuel of blind anger. 

How? How am I supposed to live with myself? Why do I get to live, when he doesn’t? Why am I the one to survive, when he was infinitely more deserving of it? How am I expected to live as if that day never happened, when I’m forced to confront the suffocating absence that now rules my head?

How am I supposed to live in a world without him?

The shrieking ends, replaced by the overpowering vacuum of silence. For a moment, everything around me is wiped from existence. Dr Denver, the study, everything, replaced by the bleak emptiness of an infinite void. Here, I can only hear the reverberation of my own hyperventilation, the drawn out gasps of my own breathing, the deafening roar of silence.

How am I supposed to live the same, when nothing ever will be the same?

Over and over the most painful segments of that day replay with all the continuity of a series of short looping videos, flashing right before my eyes. As if I weren’t already doing a good enough job spiralling into my own special breed of insanity. 

Why do I keep thinking about this? It’s not fun, but…I can’t stop. 

How am I supposed to stop? And more importantly, how am I supposed…to live?

…

Out of nowhere, a disembodied voice echoes in the distance. “It’s okay, it’s okay…everything will be okay…” It sounds faint and almost indecipherable, but…familiar. Then, the image of a floating hand, by itself, is steadily projected into my vision, open and outstretched, waiting for someone to grab onto it. As it hovers closer, the voice grows louder, clearer.  “Everything will be fine.

“Just breathe.”

…

As the outstretched hand begins to clasp itself around my palm, I take a deep breath and make a death grip with the hand. And as I do so, everything around me starts fading back in. 

Thank you…Dr Denver.

My breathing starts to stabilise as the hyperventilating fades, and I gradually regain control over my own mental faculties. Dr Denver’s voice is now clear and recognisable enough for me to make out. “Breathe in…breathe out.” I follow his lead. For now, there’s nothing else to think about, nothing else to focus on. All there is to do…

“Just breathe. Everything will be fine.”

My head…

“Are you feeling better now, Ray?”

I try my best to look back up at him, against the will of my slightly dizzy head, only to see a weak smile on his face. 

Oh, right. He witnessed the whole thing, from start to finish, and it must have been serious enough in his eyes for him to intervene.

I look at him sheepishly, flashing a weak thumbs up at him. “I’m sorry about that, doc. I’m better now, I swear.” That seems to do little to alleviate his concerns. 

“It’s fine.” That half-hearted smile on Dr Denver’s face remains, although his eyes are trained almost pitifully at me. He sighs and shakes his head, from what I can only guess is in accusation of himself. “We won’t be doing it today. I don’t want to rush you before you’re ready to talk about it. Besides, the time’s up for this session anyway. We’ll do this next week. For now, there’s a little something I want to give you.”

Dr Denver takes a moment to debilitate on his next course of action. He gets up from his eyes scanning the perimeter. “This is just a theory, but…I have a gut feeling that there’s still more in your mind that you haven’t let on. More than recollections of memories can convey. If only I can locate what I need…” Eventually, his eyes turn to something on the wooden table. “Ah!” His entire demeanour lights up, as he reaches over to grab a nondescript hardcover book from a little cubby in the armoire.

After scribbling something on the first page with all the legibility of a medical professional, he places the book onto the table, cordially laying out the itinerary for me. “Let’s try something. If speaking isn’t your forte, how about writing? So…

“I want you to bring this little journal wherever you go. At specific hours of the day, which I have listed in the first page here, stop everything you’re doing, be it homework, gaming, doomscrolling, et cetera. Turn off your mind to all outside influences, and then get this book out and record a snapshot of whatever your brain is thinking at that particular instance. I know it’s corny, but trust me. It works wonders.”

I nod ashamedly, avoiding the gaze of Dr Denver’s eyes. 

“Great. We shall meet again, same time next week. For now, this session is adjourned.” How is he still speaking to me with such joviality?

As I shuffle my way to the door, I grab earphones from my pocket, turning on some music. I restrain myself from looking back at him eagerly waving me goodbye, as the door swings shut behind me.

Mrs. Kono

“I remember being called by the principal on the day that everything happened. Her voice sounded…strained. She was stumbling over her words. She clearly had no idea how to put forth the news that she was about to deliver. Eventually, she simply told me, verbatim, to “Come to the school. Right now.” And the precision and urgency in her words was enough indication to me that something had perhaps gone horribly wrong.”

True to his word, Jax does not reply, instead simply listening and nodding along while sipping away at his tea. “I remember, at that moment, after hanging up the call, there was pin drop silence as I feared the worst. No, I said to myself, it can’t be. I remember at that moment I refused to believe it. But it came straight from her.”

“I frantically ran straight for the school at breakneck speed. By the time I got there, I was out of breath. But it didn’t matter. The principal escorted me to the back of the school, where an ambulance had already been stationed. And when I laid eyes on that white sheet, I…”

Jax stands up from his seat, washing the cup he’d been using, before replenishing it with water. He slides the cup over to me, gesturing over at it. All without saying a word. I take a sip. “Thanks.” As enigmatic as he presents himself, he is quite a sweet guy. 

“As I was leaving the school, the police were walking a guy in handcuffs, visibly squirming, resisting the police’s efforts to escort him, without much success. The guy in question had freckles dotting his face and rocked a mullet. Meanwhile, another police officer, wearing gloves, was picking up a revolver that had been left on the ground, dropping it into a zip-loc bag, while swabbing the pool of blood beneath his feet. It did not take long for me to connect the dots from there.

“It still pains me to think about this, but the shooter…he wasn’t some 40-year-old man with a vengeance. In fact, if I had to venture a guess, he’s actually probably around the same age as you, Jax. I wouldn’t be surprised if he also went to the same school.” I think I can see a faint hint of recognition in Jax’s eyes, although he refuses to elaborate on it.

“It hurt to even show up to the court proceedings. To look at him, stony-faced as he shuffled in the door, tethered to his own body with handcuffs and chains, pale and white but otherwise unfeeling. To listen to the prosecution as they laid out the evidence, one by one. I was so close to running forward and punching the living daylights out of him as he sat there, tuned out of the heated discussion in the room, both in defence of and against him. 

“Is he aware of the full extent of what he’s done? All the people he’s hurt? How are his parents supposed to deal with this? I’ve seen their home ransacked by cops, while they sit outside, leaning on each other’s shoulders, all puffy-eyed. And in court they have to withstand vitriolic statements about how their son did horrible things.

“And how am I supposed to deal with this? How am I supposed to live as normal, when nothing ever will be normal…”

My voice trails off, as the tears in my eyes cascade down my cheeks. My mind is too clouded, too flooded with rage and grief to say anything anymore. Jax grabs a tissue from the pantry, handing it over to me. “Thanks”, I reply, sniffing my nose.

The next minute or so is filled with silence. My mind is still hazy and I can’t think of anything to say. I’m no good to keep going in this state, but I don’t know how to say it.

But I don’t need to.

Jax grabs his phone and pauses the recording. “Let’s take a break.”