Guilt

The news lately has been quite depressing to watch, hasn’t it? Frankly, I don’t go through one single day without hearing about a new conflict, robbery or something of that sort. Or even worse, a war…

War is something that doesn’t make sense to me. Conflicts where younger people who don’t know each other kill each other on behalf of older people who hate each other but can’t find to take their fat butts off their chairs to actually fight. I would not do well on a battlefield. Maybe even being a cop would not be for me. Even playing games where I have to shoot people or zombies makes me nervous.

Still if I was dealing with really bad people, having someone’s blood in my hands would not be something I’d be proud of myself for. I can’t bring myself to kill anybody. I can’t and I never will! I’ve heard of some gang conflict in the city. That’s why I kinda jumped when I heard the police’s siren when I was going to school. On my way, I met my friend, Craig.

“Hey, Tim!” He called. “Did you see a ghost or something?”

“I don’t know, did you hear of a war going on?” I replied, a timid smile forming in my tired face.

“Yeah, and the sky is blue,” Craig laughed. “Where?”

“Something ‘stan’,” I thought and said.

“It’s always those places,” Craig shook his head. “What? Scared of a nuke dropping in town?”

We were getting closer to the school gate.

“Worse, that we might be drafted,” I cringed.

“You have plenty of years before that,” Craig gave me a light tap on the back. “I have four years, at least.”

“Who knows if it will end before that?” I mumbled.

“Not with this optimism,” Craig laughed and, rather violently, messed up my hair. “Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

We ran into school just as the bell rang. Phew, we made it. Maybe Craig is right, I always feel like a meteor is gonna crash on my head or something. I really need something to cool it off. Maybe some boring classes will distract my mind. Thinking about how certain school subjects are useless is more entertaining than thinking about war or violence.

Some hours later, after recess, it’s history class, we’re learning about World War 2. Great… And, to make things even better (notice my sarcasm?), kids in P. E. are being loud and the school yard is right next to my room. Stupid 6th graders… Don’t say I am being too harsh, I am in 7th grade, for darn’s sake! They are getting louder. As I turned to scold them, I saw something, or rather someone.

It was an older student. I think it was. He had the same height as some 11th graders, he had some messy dark brown hair and deep large black eyes with some dark circles. His head was mostly hidden by the hood of his indigo sweatshirt. His steps were decisive, and his hands trembled as he reached for his pockets. I leaned over and lightly opened the window. Some kids in that very P. E. class looked at him. I saw him taking his hands off his pocket.

“Watch out!” I yelled.

He took a gun out of his pocket! He fired at the P.E. students, killing one of them in the spot with a headshot. The rest of the class tried to escape, and the P. E. coach tried to tame the shooter, but he was shot as well. Maybe he died, maybe not, either way the shooter fired again right in the chest and slowly walked to where all the children went. He glanced at our window and tried to shoot us!, but we laid down very quickly and evaded the room.

I went to the professor’s table to get my phone and call the police. Where was it…? I heard some shots in the hall, people running and screaming their lungs out. The phone drawer was locked! Come on! I started going to the door and saw, in the distance, my friend Craig.

He was sprinting, then he screamed at the feeling of a bullet piercing his leg. He fell down, I gasped with a little bounce, almost making a fire extinguisher that was attached to the wall fall on my foot. I grabbed it before it made any noise. Though I’m no Hercules, I could still hold and lift the extinguisher.

I turned back just in time to see the intruder drilling my friend’s midriff with more bullets. Yes, bullets, in plural…! My eyes widened and a tear came off. Craig… I heard some noise in the room.

I glanced over and there was a girl, about my age. She was my classmate, but I didn’t know her very well. Through the classroom’s window that sees the hallway, the shooter rapidly turned his head to our room! He came rather quickly. I hid behind the door (there was a good space between the doorframe and the wall) and my classmate tried to get more invisible. The shooter entered the room. He glanced over the place. What could I do if the guy went after me? Could the fire extinguisher stop a bullet of that caliber? He entered the room and started moving to the back of the class, I think he saw the girl…

Without thinking much, I silently left my hideout and went behind the intruder. I lifted the fire extinguisher and pow! A hit in the head! He fell straight down. The sound of his head hitting the floor echoed through the room. I went near him, just to see his convulsing body. He had spasms for a few seconds before lying still. I could retrieve the gun from his hand and threw it on the other side of the room. The girl left her hideout and gasped at the sight of the intruder lying still on the ground.

“Call somebody,” I stammered an order.

The girl nodded, still trembling, and ran away, while I watched the shooter’s still body, still holding the extinguisher. He stood there, unmoving. I left the extinguisher on the ground. While he was there, I managed to process everything. My hands lifted, I glanced at them. They trembled with the thought that now I had blood in them. Not literal blood, but I did use them to kill someone. I probably saved the entire school, but why do I struggle to smile at that thought?

The adults came in soon after and they tackled the shooter, though he did not move anymore. Some of them went after me and asked me all sorts of questions, though I could only glance at nothing, eventually laying eyes on the shooter. I also saw the girl giving details of what happened, sometimes she pointed and looked at me. Some other people looked at me. I couldn’t hear anything, even my hearing was blurred. All I could do was sit down with my legs trembling, trying not to collapse.

A while later, just a few hours after the shooter was taken to the hospital along with me and other wounded kids and adults from my school (more than ten, probably), he was pronounced dead by head trauma, both in the back and front of the head. He was identified as a senior student. It was his forehead that hit the ground at his fall, and his back of the head that I hit with the extinguisher… I have blood in my hands. I glanced at them, they were shaking and I could see blood in them.

My breath started getting heavier and I still could hear the intruder’s head hitting the ground. Some doctors noticed my state and started doing their doctor things on me.

My breathing was heavy, my eyes twitchy and my head was pulsing at the memory of the shots and, for some reason, also the killer’s head hitting the ground. I wanted to yell, to scream, but all that went out were a few muffled gasps and mumbles. It went on for a few minutes before I eventually calmed down. I was crying. Why was I acting up like this? A kid younger than me was by my side and was not crying despite getting shot in the tight. What the hell is wrong with me?! I coughed a few times before feeling very sleepy and tumbling into a deep snooze.

A week later, I left the hospital, given that they only perceived the damage to me as psychological. At school, I received an award for my bravery. Bravery for what, killing a man? I know it was a school shooter, but still, there was blood in my hands. At the auditorium, accepting my award, a shiny golden medal, instead of a “thank you for the honor” or “I did what had to be done, even at the cost of my life”, all that went out of my mouth was a series of gasps and mumbles clogged in my throat. I coughed some times, ignoring the principal offering me a glass of water, and I started hearing the sound again. The shooter’s head hitting the floor was like a loud drum playing in my ear. My breath started getting heavier. Oh no, I don’t wanna cause a scene in front of the entire school. So I just said a huffed thanks and started leaving, with my legs wobbling. Good riddance, Tim. However, at the first step in the staircase leaving the stage, my legs gave in and I almost suffered the same fate as my victim.

Thankfully, I managed to grab the handrail. My chest was pulling inward, I couldn’t breathe. Everyone was looking at me, the principal was talking with the vice-principal. My breath turned into clogged gasps and soon an adult (I don’t remember who), grabbed me by the shoulder and carried me away.

Some time passed. I am in my third year of therapy now. I’m taking medication. The psychiatrist said I have a disorder, I don’t remember, but it was an acronym. Now, whenever my head feels heavy and the drum of the shooter’s head hitting the floor starts getting too loud, I take a pill. I get either sleepy or nauseous, but at least the sound is muffled and the sights of his corpse and the blood that wasn’t even there are blurry. They are all still there, though. Even if the shooter’s reasoning was legit, there was no excuse for his doings. Then why, why do I still have that vague and weird feeling that I am as much to blame as he is, although his body count was higher? What is it actually called? And why, no matter how I try to ignore it or how many pills I take, why does it never go away?