Table of Contents
Blurb
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope (1700)
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By Shirley Anne Edwards
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Copyright
Let Me Live
By Shirley Anne Edwards
Finding the Strength: Book Two
Marshall’s carefully constructed future—a scholarship, college, and a career in politics—was torn apart in a hail of bullets when his former friend and lover killed twelve on their campus. Marshall may have survived, but he returned home a broken man, and not just from his wounds. Far from feeling like the hero he’s praised as on the news, Marshall is buckling under the weight of PTSD, survivor’s guilt, and depression. He may have saved lives on that terrible day, but with no support, can he save his own?
Tattoo artist Benny Hayes might be the one to offer the lifeline Marshall needs so desperately.
The older man can’t erase what happened, but his acceptance might help Marshall heal. In Benny, Marshall sees a chance for something he thought he’d lost—life and love. As much as he wants to grab on to that hope, he harbors a secret that, if revealed, will snatch away everything he’s gained.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
—Excerpt from Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope
Chapter One
I NEVER thought blood was scary, but when your friend and six others are shot in front of you, you think of it as a monster that wants to kill you.
Monsters also come in human form. Case in point was John Cannon, the guy I met my first day as a freshman at National Capital University in Washington, DC…. He was now the ultimate monster in my eyes. He had stormed the university library with guns blazing, mowing down everyone in sight, including my other friend Jordan.
I was the lucky one. I only had a gunshot wound to my left shoulder. It was the worst pain I’d ever experienced, but at least I wasn’t dead like the girl behind me, who no longer had a head, or Jordan, drenched in his own blood but with a face white as a sheet while he gasped for air. He had been shot in the stomach at close range because he had been talking to the librarian at the front desk. She was also hit with gunfire. She was probably dead like most on the first floor of the library.
But I wasn’t dead. Maybe John didn’t want me dead yet, unlike Jordan, whom he hated.
“Marshall,” Jordan whispered loud enough for me to hear. But not John. He paced in front of the double doors, peering out of the two small windows while clutching his AR-15 rifle to his blood-splattered chest. He wore all black, so blood wouldn’t show on his clothes, although some red specks dotted his arms and face. I made the mistake of wiping away some of the blood, both mine and Jordan’s, on my white button-down shirt. It made too much of a mess. I should have known wearing white, especially in February, was a bad decision.
Last time I moved, John rushed at me, waving his gun in the air. I expected him to finish me off, but he stopped and dropped his arms to his sides and stared at the floor. He then walked around, viewing the damage he had caused—the blood-covered bodies he’d created.
I shifted closer to Jordan to hear him. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes gave off a strange glaze. If he didn’t get help soon, he would die. I don’t know why I did it, probably because my brain was scrambled and the pain in my shoulder made me nauseous and tired, but I wiped the blood off Jordan’s mouth, not caring if I stained my fingers more than they already were.
“Marsh… is Shiri okay?” He swallowed and closed his eyes, wincing as he fisted his hand near his ripped-open stomach.
Shiri, his twin sister, older by four minutes, had been on the second level where we left her. John hadn’t walked up to the second level, but he did point his gun there and circled around. The library was five stories, so anyone on the higher floors might have made it to safety. As for those on the first floor and in the hallway leading to the library, they were probably dead.
“She’s okay. I saw her a few minutes ago. She’s safe.” I usually didn’t lie. But in this case, it was warranted. If Jordan died, I wanted him to believe his sister was okay, even if she wasn’t.
He nodded and lifted his trembling fist. My eyes, which had been dry up to this point, became wet, and I clutched Jordan’s hand, trying to hold back tears. The last time I cried was when I was ten and Mom said I was—
“Marshall C, what the hell are you doing?”
The voice I’d come to fear was too close. John had a gruff type smoker voice I’d found enjoyable. I once told him he should go into radio like Theo, my friend from home and former crush. But he shook his head and accused me of teasing him because his father had said ugly people worked in radio. “Am I ugly like my dad thinks, Marshall C?” he’d asked. Always calling me Marshall C since day one. Jordan called me by my full last name, Caryll. John always said my name with my last initial.
“Jordan’s not doing too well,” I said as calmly as possible, suddenly too cold. I wanted to sit up because my side ached something fierce. But I still held Jordan’s hand. He had become too quiet and looked like he slept. But his chest still moved as he breathed.
“He’s not dead yet?” He pointed his rifle at Jordan, and my entire body clenched as I waited for him to shoot. I almost dove over Jordan to protect him, but at the last second, I froze. I started to pray to God, something I hadn’t done in a long time. It was more along the lines of—
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
My vision grew fuzzy as I cried, my cheeks wet with tears. I cut off a sob, refusing to show John he had made me this blubbering mess who was now afraid of blood.
“Uh… have you checked Twitter yet?” I wanted to take his attention away from Jordan, the subject of his scorn. Up until winter break, they had gotten along, mainly because I had been the buffer between them. But then I made a huge mistake with John right before Christmas, which might have been the reason for his deadly outburst that would change the college campus and Washington, DC forever.
“Twitter?” He curled his lip, or at least it looked like it to me. It was a habit of his when he asked a question or was confused about something. A section of his top lip would curl up, showing some of his teeth with their yellow staining from his smoking. The scent of cigarette smoke stuck to him like his skin, but now it was overpowered by gunpowder and piss and vomit and blood—all the things I smelled in the first-floor library of NCU, less than ten miles away from the White House where I hoped to work one day.
“Yeah, Twitter, to see if they know what you did.” Flashing red and blue lights outside the window gave me a good idea the college, if not the nation, knew about the mass shooting. But it was eerily quiet, other than the hum of the overhead lights and John’s muttering. Not one moan or heavy breath from anyone he’d shot. Even Jordan was silent.
“The last time I checked was when I tweeted before coming here.” He took out his cell, an older version of an iPhone, and held it out, his smile wide but fake, his eyes e
mpty, as he pointed it at me. “Say cheese.”
The click from his phone sounded like nails on a chalkboard. He then tapped his thumb on the keyboard of the touch screen. “Done. Now you’re the star you always wanted to be, no longer just the golden boy of the freshman class.”
“You put me on Twitter?” I glanced at Jordan who didn’t react, other than to wheeze as his breathing grew heavier and his chest moved less.
“Also Jordan, but you’re in the center. We’ll go down in history together.” John turned the phone around and took pictures of his face, ranging from serious to what he thought was funny by raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth wide.
Sick. He was sick. I was, too, but mine was more physical as I leaned into a table, wanting to lie on the ground and sleep like Jordan. But my shoulder hurt too much. I couldn’t lift it anymore, and there was a constant ringing in my ears.
“Oh, Jordan, where’s your bitch sister?” John kicked Jordan’s leg and lifted the rifle toward the ceiling.
I hoped to God Shiri had made it to the emergency exit in the back on the second floor, but since I didn’t hear any alarms go off or see any bright red lights, she was probably still in the study room, or maybe hiding in a corner near one of the bookshelves, hoping John wouldn’t start shooting again or walk upstairs and take out more people. But if he did, he would take the chance I would book it to the entrance. But I had too many roadblocks. Not only did he push a table in front of the door, but there were two bodies lying in front of it.
“She’s not here,” I said, barely above a whisper. For some reason my throat clogged. Something hard was stuck in there, and I couldn’t get rid of it.
He lowered his arm and the gun to the floor. He tapped his fingers on his hips, near his side piece—another gun, I think a pistol or some sort of revolver he had yet to use. Right next to it was a grenade, and hanging from his pocket were two sticks of dynamite.
Seeing those weapons made it harder for me to breathe. I would have shit my pants by now, except I’d used the bathroom before meeting Shiri and Jordan at the library. We were going to study for our Political Theory class—the same class John took with us. He had an open invite every Sunday to study with us at the library. It may have been uncomfortable for me because of Jordan, but he was still welcome. That was what I got for trying to be everyone’s friend. I took after my dad that way. As the mayor of my hometown of Albee, he was a big people person.
I wondered if he knew about the shooting by now. Would Mom know also? Or would she even care. She didn’t—
“Pay attention to me.” John snapped his fingers in front of my face, bringing me out of my daze. My arm ached again, and when I moved it, pain tore up the side of my neck and face, making me wince.
“What?” I shifted my arm closer to my side even as I still held Jordan’s now limp hand in my right. At least his skin was warm and not clammy or cold.
“I’m bored, and you’re the only one here not dead I can talk to.” He plopped down in front of me, but with enough space that I couldn’t grab his rifle. He laid it on his lap but kept his finger on the trigger.
“You want to talk because it’s me or I just happen to be lucky enough that you shot me in the arm and not in the head or….” I swallowed, finding it difficult to say the word stomach because of Jordan.
“Or what, Marshall C, golden boy of NCU who fucked me over?” He took out a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
“You can’t—” I exhaled and lowered my head to my chest, a laugh falling from my mouth.
“I can’t what?” He stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
“I was going to say you can’t smoke in here. Pretty dumb of me.” I rested my head on the table leg, the urge to shut my eyes too strong to resist. Maybe I would pass out from blood loss and escape this nightmare. Or maybe I wouldn’t because John would get angry and shoot me in the head, finally putting me out of my misery.
“I can smoke since no one can stop me. Plus it annoys you because you hate cigarettes.” He grinned around his cigarette. “But it still didn’t stop you from sticking your tongue in my mouth before winter break.”
I’d made a big mistake sleeping with him. I should have kept my distance because he wasn’t in a good place. I just didn’t realize how unstable he was. My mistake might have caused him to go off the deep end, and now all these innocent people were collateral damage.
“Who tasted better. Me or our boy Jordan here?” He took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it on Jordan.
This was all my fault. I had been so stupid, hooking up with these two guys who were my friends. But how could I know John would react in such a way that—
The phone on the information desk rang. John ignored it and continued staring at me.
“The ringing might not stop, especially if the authorities outside want to talk to you,” I pointed out.
“Authorities? Why can’t you say cops like everyone else our age?” he snarled, drawing the rifle’s muzzle up. “You act and talk like you’re better than everyone else.”
I couldn’t help how I was brought up or how my education was different from his. I wasn’t going to apologize or reason with him. I was proud of who I was and what I had become. I might still be young, only eighteen, but I had so many plans for my future… as long as I made it out of here alive.
The phone stopped ringing, but then John’s rang. He peeked at the touch screen but didn’t answer it. I thought of my cell I usually carried on me, but this time I’d left it near my book bag, thinking I’d only be gone a few minutes. Maybe Shiri had it and called my dad to tell him I was still alive… for now.
“John….” I licked my too dry lips. “You should answer your phone. What if it’s your mom? Don’t you talk to her every—”
“Shut up!” He swung the rifle at me, jabbing me in the forehead.
I shut my eyes and gripped Jordan’s hand hard, waiting for the gunshot that would blow me away into oblivion.
But it never came. I opened one eye to see John shaking his head and mumbling about his mother and her cancer. She wasn’t expected to live past the summer. I felt bad for him, and because of it, the sympathy I offered him a few months ago had brought us to this point.
“At least your mom talks to you. Mine can’t stand me.” There was some truth to my statement. But when it came to Mom, it was more pity and leftover disgust because her only child, her amazing son, or so many had told her, was gay, something her conservative mind wouldn’t accept.
I didn’t know if John’s parents, his sick mother or cold, disciplinarian father, were aware their youngest son was either gay or bisexual. Whenever he talked about sex, it was always about the girls he’d slept with. It wasn’t until a few weeks before we hooked up that he admitted he had feelings for me… and possibly Jordan.
“I don’t recognize the number.” He tossed his phone away while it rang.
“Why don’t you call your mom? She has to be worried about you.” I would have lifted my hand to his knee, a force of habit when I was concerned for others. But there was no way in hell I would touch him willingly again.
“She’s going to hate me like Dad.” His face grew a darker shade of red, which matched his bloodshot eyes, which were normally a clear green.
“We have something in common, you with your dad, me with my mom. Why don’t you answer your ph-phone?” My voice shook just enough I almost stuttered, something I’d never done before.
He pulled the gun away from my forehead, leaving behind the sensation of the hard metal. I wondered if he left a mark, perhaps another scar to join the one on my arm?
“What if I want you to fetch my phone? Would you leave Jordan’s side?” He jabbed Jordan’s foot with the gun.
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. I guess I should have moved first or at least shifted to show John I would get his phone, but I stayed locked in place. He took the pistol out of his holster and pointed it at my chest.
“Too
late. You always chose him over me.”
“Not tr-true,” I announced through my dry mouth. “I was with you first. I wanted to be with you first.”
“You were my first too.” He smirked. “Why do you think when I came in here, I shot you before anyone else?”
“You did? So… you wanted to kill me.”
“Nah. Just hurt ya a little.” He shifted the pistol at Jordan. “I wanted to kill him first, but that bitch librarian was in the way.”
It had been some time since I checked on Jordan. His hand was still warm in mine, and all I had to do was move my thumb to the inside of his wrist to check his pulse. But John would notice, and I couldn’t take the chance he might have a bad reaction to my concern for Jordan.
“Let go of his hand,” he ordered, the pistol back in my direction.
“What if I don’t? Will it give you the excuse you need to kill me like you wanted to do with Jordan?” My voice rose more in hysteria than anger.
He lunged toward me and pulled back the trigger as he dug the gun into the side of my head. His rifle landed half on my lap, and his face was close enough to mine that his breath and his sweat landed on my tear-stained cheeks.
“Stop taunting me and just do it! What are you waiting for?” The ringing in my ears changed to static and my body became numb. Why was the floor under me now wet?
He pressed his forehead to mine and cursed. He then curled his fingers around my neck and dropped his mouth to my chin.
He sat there not moving, while I froze in fear, not caring if I’d pissed my pants or my left arm and hand throbbed, making me light-headed.
It could have been minutes or an hour, but when he did finally move, he lowered the gun away from my head and stuck it in between us. I gulped in air, and from the corner of my eye, I checked the window, seeing the red and blue lights still flashing.
“Jo-John, this needs to end. Just like you decided to come in here with your gun and shoot people, you need to decide what to do next. If you don’t, they will,” I said, trying to reason with him.
Let Me Live Page 1
