Labeled a Survivor

This story contains references/themes of mental health and violence.

Lady in a green raincoat.

Man in a wrinkled suit jacket.

Mother and child grasping tightly to each other; boots scuffed in mud.

“5. 34.”

Man at the counter. Shuffling through customer after customer. Never changing expression. Not when the cards are declined. Or when the pockets are emptied with change. Not even when the man, in the wrinkled suit, chatters away on his phone.

In and out. In and out. People come in and out.

Then a sound like a firecracker. Pop. Pop. Pop.

A feeling of uneasiness. Knees buckling to the ground. A box of mop and glow as cover.

Another pop.

Screams. So many screams.

The sound of glass shattering. Crashing.

Then silence. How long does nothing make a sound?

Then the sirens.

One. Two. Three. How many seconds will go by?

How many minutes?

“Ma’am?”

A hand nudges you. It takes some time for your mind to register. For your eyes to register.

A man with glasses. Eyes twinged with something. Maybe fear? Maybe grief?

“Are you hurt?” A small shake of the head and somehow you find yourself sitting upright. Instinct is to look down. But what do your eyes even see?

The man offers you, his hand. The badge on his jacket says Fields.

Walk through shards of glass. Walk through drywall. Walk through a green raincoat, now smeared in blood.

There are flashing lights. A undercurrent of muffled voices. Officer Fields leads you through a cloud of yellow tape to an open door of an ambulance.

A lady with hair pulled back into a tight bun and soft eyes.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Savannah.”

The lady nods her head. “Savannah, I’m going to check your vitals, okay?”

No word came out but the lady gently placed the blood pressure cuff.

Officer Fields is still standing there, you notice.

“Savannah…do you know what happened?”

Does saying it out loud even help?

You shrug your shoulders, but Officer Fields seems to understand.

“Savannah, there was a shooting…”

You don’t hear anything else after that.

Later:

The rain falls from the sky. Splattering the sidewalk. Drenching the jacket.

The store’s windows are boarded in wood. A sign saying “Closed until further notice” taped on the door.

Rows of flowers as far as the eyes could see. Photographs lining the building. Teddy bears. Tall white candles. Red stained gravel.

The lady in the green raincoat was a nurse. She was heading home after a 12-hour third shift.

The man in the wrinkled suit jacket was a single father who had just lost his job.

The woman and child were waiting traveling by foot to her job as a server in a nearby restaurant.

The man behind the counter was a third-generation shop owner. His father just recently retired.

Maybe the box of mop and glows shielded. Or maybe it was luck. Could there have been any such thing as luck?

The rain continues to fall.

At the edge of the sidewalk, it is where they found him. Self-inflicted wound. Dead on arrival. 25. Full of anger they said. Family said misunderstood. Girlfriend said delusional. Media said many things. City officials said stricter laws were needed.

Reaching the door, it was surprisingly not locked. Pushing it open, the smell of something reached Savannah’s nose. Decay maybe. Sadness maybe. Pain maybe. Maybe all of those.

Nothing had been touched. Everything was just as it had been. A low amber light illuminated the drink coolers but otherwise nothing but darkness.

Savannah closed her eyes.

The day had begun as most had. Ignoring the alarm and staying tucked in for ten more minutes. It took twenty minutes too long to land on a reasonable hairstyle. The coffee tasted a bit off until realizing the coffee creamer was a week expired. Packing lunch of a sandwich and a bag of celery proved a grocery store after work was inevitable. Just a normal day really. There were always minor inconveniences, and work hadn’t really moved the needle lately either. A stack of figures and columns awaited at a desk only mildly decorated because it was only so big. And Savannah didn’t like the job too much. It was more of a necessity than anything.

Getting in the car and deciding to buy an energy drink was something on a whim. Maybe a breakfast sandwich. The store always had the best breakfast sandwiches. Omar always managed the counter and his brother, Manuel, always curated small items for consumption and handled the stocking. The breakfast sandwich was never disappointing.

It was possible that Savannah would be a few minutes late for work, but she decided it was worth the risk. Surprisingly, there was an open parking space not that far from the store which saved about five minutes.

Manuel always picked up a bread delivery around the morning rush. Omar never seems rattled. Savannah had been undecided between an energy drink and an orange juice. She was indecisive that way. Probably why she still was working in data entry. She had been staring at the cooler absentminded for too long until she decided on an apple juice, of all things. Then the bag of honey mustard pretzels caught her eye. It seemed like a decent snack for later.

Savannah opened her eyes. A nauseous feeling overcoming. Running out of the door, she heaved into a nearby trash can. Rain drenching her hair now. It had rained for four days straight.

She pulled her hood over her head and went to her car, parked in the same spot as that day. The rain pounded on the windows and windshield. Lights of cars passed by. People ran out of the pizza restaurant nearby. In and out.

Life has continued for most people.

Savannah had taken a leave of absence from her job. Her apartment resembled a dumpster. Overflowing with so many discarded things. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know how to feel. Everyone labeled her as a survivor.

Sitting in her car, Savannah wished she had a time machine.

Not for her to never go into the store that morning but to tell everyone…to get out.