13:11

13:11

He paces the cool concrete floor; back and forth, back and forth. His white socks collect dust on the bottom. He ignores them. The rain tapping on the basement window taunts him, reminding him of all his failures. His lips smack in rhythm with the list of everything he wanted to accomplish this year: good grades, move out of his mom’s house, get a girlfriend. So far, he hasn’t managed to do any of those things. His legs jerk, and he almost trips over himself. He is feeling restless tonight.

The television drones on in the background. This man is going to save this country. We’ve been waiting for a savior like him. Images flash across the screen: a blonde lady talking to reporters, bombs dropped on foreign cities, people arrested in the streets, flags flying in the air: patriotism, bravery, freedom.

Frustrated, he grabs the remote and changes the channel. The same continuous flow of chatter, but the narrative has shifted. He’s a terrible person, evil, corrupt, damaging our country for generations to come. Protests on the sidewalk, people in line at food banks, armed men patrolling the capital. Fear, despair, control.

He runs his fingers through his dark, wavy hair, pulling at the roots. He rubs his face with the heels of his hands. Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it? He turns the TV off.

“Ezra?” his mother calls down the stairs. “Dinner’s ready.”

She loves him; he knows she does. But he doesn’t have time to eat right now. He walks over to the black and red gaming chair that he got for his birthday and takes a seat. He pulls out his laptop and begins checking his social media. Hoping to find a used desktop for sale, he scrolls to a community page. He’s been searching for one for months. Instead, he finds disagreements.

My neighbor lost food benefits. How is she supposed to support her kids? Good, we don’t want to pay for freeloaders anymore. Tell her to get a job. I can’t afford both my student loans and groceries. Well, you shouldn’t have taken them out if you couldn’t pay them back. I don’t want to pay them for you; I don’t benefit from your degree. Illegal immigrants need to go back to where they came from! Then who is going to fill the jobs they perform? I like the diversity. They’re draining our resources. When will we ever be able to afford to buy a house? It’s your guy’s fault prices are so high. No, it’s yours.

He scrolls a little further, and a notification catches his eye. The state senator is coming for a town hall at the high school auditorium tomorrow at 1 P.M. Hundreds of comments follow.

A voice speaks to him, his guardian angel. Anger is the thief of serenity. There can be no peace until there is unity. The ones in charge have to be stopped, one by one. He shakes his head, trying to focus. He just wants a new desktop.

He had been fired from his job washing dishes at the café last week, another defeat. Not that it was paying enough to make a difference anyway. However, it did leave him with more free time. He could go to the town hall.

The leaders must be stopped, his angel tells him. Only when the head of the serpent is severed will the world be healed.

He takes a deep breath, contemplating. His mother would be furious if she found out he wanted to go. He hasn’t been sleeping much the past week, and he skipped a few classes. His grades were starting to slip. But when would he have the opportunity to be this close to the senator again?

He had graduated from the same high school last year, so he’s familiar with the layout. He pulls up the school’s website, looking for a map. He looks past announcements and updates and finds what he is looking for at the bottom of the page. He pulls it up and prints a copy. The auditorium is between the gymnasium and the cafeteria. There is sure to be security, so he marks where he believes the entrances for the event will be.

He notices something missing. Sometimes, when he was a senior, he would sneak out of school to buy fast food. There was a stairwell between the gym and the library that led outside to the football field, which isn’t on the map. It was never monitored because it was rarely used. He’d never been caught. He circled it in red. This could be his point of entry.

He closes the laptop and puts the map in a desk drawer. If he’s going to do this, blending in will be very important. He has to pick out an outfit that doesn’t stand out. He walks over to his closet and pulls out a pair of relaxed blue jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and his black and white Adidas running shoes. Then, he chooses a faded olive-green hat with an emblem of a small mountain range and a pair of black socks. His laptop backpack is tucked away in the corner, and he fishes it out to carry his supplies. He lays everything out on the dresser to evaluate his choices. Only one thing is missing.

His mother has had enough time to finish dinner, so he climbs up the stairs to the main house and looks down the hall. He can see her washing dishes, her back to him. He silently closes the door behind him and heads to his dad’s office. In the back of the room is a six-foot-tall safe. When his father was alive, he would regularly change the code, but his mother wasn’t quite as diligent. It has been Ezra’s birthday for the past three years.

His father had been in the army in his early twenties. He also loved to hunt, and when Ezra turned twelve, he took him on his first deer hunt. Afterwards, he showed him his collection of guns that he kept locked away. There were rifles, shotguns, and pistols. He also had an assault rifle that he’d found for a good deal at a gun show. He’d spent weeks teaching Ezra how to take it apart and put it back together. Ezra grabs the assault rifle and a box of ammunition, then tiptoes back down the hall to the basement.

Downstairs, he disassembles the weapon and puts it and the bullets in the backpack. Satisfied that he has everything he needs, he changes into some pajamas and climbs into bed. He stares at the ceiling fan, unable to sleep. Flashing images in his mind accompany the ticking of the blades. Angry crowds, his mother with her arms crossed around her chest, his father teaching him how to aim the rifle, useless leaders terrorizing the world, his professor calling him out in front of the class for falling asleep, everyone laughing at him, the senator smiling, promising change, and never following through.

It’s almost noon before he wakes up. He grabs his clothes and makes his way to the shower. He turns the water to a comfortably warm setting and stands under the stream. When he gets out, he puts the clothes on that he picked out the night before and takes a long look at his reflection. As long as he can control his blinking, he looks like a normal guy. He grabs the backpack and makes his way to the front door.

As he walks out, the air feels thick, heavy, burdened. The clouds are a blanket of lead in the sky. The wind rips the leaves off the branches, mixing them with the sideways rain. Lightning strikes and thunder follows, as if they’re in a disagreement. He turns around and pulls a black poncho off the coat rack next to the door and pulls it over his hat and backpack. He unlocks the doors on his key fob from the front stoop, then dashes to his car. Inside, he throws the poncho and backpack on the front seat, cranks the car, and turns on the defogger. He has exactly forty-five minutes to get to the auditorium.

He turns on the headlights and the windshield wipers, then backs out of the drive. A small river has formed at the end of the driveway; it splashes when he backs over it, blocking the view from the back windshield. Fortunately, he makes it onto the road safely.

He can’t see anything going down the street. Water hits the windshield with such force that even though the wipers are on max, he can barely make out the double yellow lines. Sudden gales burst into the side of the car, threatening to blow him into a ditch.

The weather lets up about half a mile away from the school. The clouds thin to a feathery gray, and the rain stops. People line both sides of the school entrance, holding signs and flags. Ezra sees police at the places he’d outlined on the map the night before. Guests walk through metal detectors, and when they alarm, the cops scan them with wands. He pulls around to the cafeteria parking lot and is relieved to see that it’s mostly empty. He picks a spot near the library.

As he opens his door and climbs out of the car, he sees a man in uniform approaching. He looks to be about the same age as Ezra, maybe a few years older. Anxiety creeps up his spine as the man approaches. He reaches back inside and throws the poncho over the backpack, hiding it from view. When he comes back out, the man stops, tells him to follow everyone else, and walks away.

He reaches back inside, grabs the backpack, and heads toward the football field. As he reaches the corridor where the door is hidden, he realizes he hadn’t thought about what he would do if the door were locked. When he gets to the door, he grabs the knob and twists it to the left. It turns easily. He pulls the door open and slides inside.

It was dark in the short hallway. He expected that. He walks carefully, quietly, along the wall until he reaches the bottom step. He takes the stairs one at a time, as softly as possible. At the top, he sees a line of light under the door that opens into the school.

He cracks the door slowly and peeks out. People walk toward the auditorium, talking to amongst themselves. Nobody glances in his direction. He takes the opportunity to sneak into the crowd. He blends in easily.

Inside, the auditorium is packed. There aren’t any seats available in the lower seating area, but he could see that some are open on the balcony. The balcony could work, but he prefers to be ground level. He looks around and remembers that there are platforms around the room where people can stand. He makes his way to one on the right of the stage.

He squeezes his way to the front of the platform, making sure he has a good view of the stage. He slides slightly to the left until he is satisfied with the angle. He looks at his watch. Five minutes until the senator is supposed to start the meeting. The seats in the balcony are almost full now, and people begin to line the aisles.

The crowd around him discusses the latest headlines. The economy is the best that it has been in three years. Then why can’t we afford groceries? The stock market is booming; do your research. Gas prices are down. Where? I paid almost three dollars a gallon for mine today. I don’t know where you’ve been going, but it was twenty cents cheaper per gallon than last year when I filled up today. The news says that a new bill will put our health insurance in jeopardy. My sister has cancer, and I don’t know how we’ll be able to pay for her treatments now. Well, I’m tired of my tax dollars being wasted on people who don’t have jobs. I pay for my own, so should everyone else.

The lights around them dim, and the ones pointing toward the stage come on. An announcer introduces the senator as he strolls out onto the stage. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored navy-blue suit, a white button-down shirt, a maroon tie, and brown shoes. His salt and pepper hair is cut into a short pompadour. It reminds Ezra of his father’s. He smiles and waves at the crowd, like they are lifelong friends he’s greeting at a coffee shop.

He takes the mic and begins his opening speech. There’s a mixture of boos and cheers from the crowd. Ezra surveys the scene, making sure he’ll be able to make a quick exit. There’s a door about twenty feet away from him. He’ll have to shove people out of the way, but he can make it. The weight of the moment settles on his shoulders, and he thinks about leaving through the door.

You have to do this, it’s the only way, his angel tells him.

He slides his backpack off his shoulders and sets it on the ground. Squatting down, he pulls out the gun. His hands work quickly, putting the pieces together just like his father taught him.

“Don’t worry, your tax dollars won’t be wasted anymore. And your sister will get the cancer treatment that she needs,” Ezra says aloud as he stands back up.

“What?” asks a woman standing near him.

He ignores her. He pulls the weapon up to his chest, looks through the scope, and lines it up with the senator. The woman lets out a scream. He can feel the eyes of the crowd shift to him. The sudden commotion draws the senator’s attention, and he turns to run away. Ezra moves his finger toward the trigger. As he tightens his finger, someone shoves him hard to the left. The bullet leaves the chamber in a single deafening boom.

People run screaming toward the exits. They knock each other to the floor, frantic to get out. Ezra can’t see the stage. Where is the senator? He cranes his neck but is almost knocked to the floor by a man desperately trying to escape. He turns around to make his way to the door, leaving the backpack and rifle behind.

When he reaches for the handle, a man in a black uniform with the word SECURITY on the front bursts through. He yells out, reaching for his holster. Suddenly, Ezra is lying on his back, looking up at the ceiling. There’s a sharp pain in his right ribcage. A warmth blossoms from the area and rolls in streams towards his back. He can’t get enough air in his lungs; his throat pulls in the direction of his injury.

The room seeps into darkness as he gasps for breath. In the distance, sirens approach. Footsteps race away from the auditorium, and are replaced with others heading in his direction. The pain starts to dull. A white light forms in the center of his vision.

Your work here is done, his angel tells him.