by Eli Easton
I found myself sitting on the floor, my phone clutched in my hand. I should have felt relief because Josiah was safe, Madison was safe, but how could I?
I knew I should move to get out, get to safety, but I couldn’t find the will. All these kids had done was go to fucking lunch. Why? Why?
“Help. Help me.”
The words were low, and they snapped me out of the fog. I looked around. Over by the water fountain was a guy lying on his side on the floor. He was looking at me. He said it again. “Help me. Please.”
A fresh wave of adrenaline and sorrow washed through me. Oh God. It was Brian Marshall. Yesterday he’d been the picture of youth and glowing health. Now he lay on his side, trying to raise his head off the floor to look at me. His bloody hands clutched his shirt. His face was white, so damn white, and a red pool was growing from his body like an oil spill.
I pushed myself up and staggered over to him. I fell to my knees beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m here. Can you lie back? Let me help you.”
Brian rolled onto his back with a groan of pain. But he looked up at me with his dark blue eyes filled with so much relief and trust. Like he just didn’t want to be alone.
Like he didn’t want to die alone.
Hot, sour anger rose up in me again. This shouldn’t be happening. Not to Brian, not to any of them. But anger wouldn’t help right now. I had to get it together. I had to help him. My eyes stung.
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be all right.” I tried to sound confident, but my voice broke.
He was clutching his stomach on the lower left side, his hands bloody and shaking like crazy. Fresh dark red blood oozed through his fingers.
I gently pulled his hands away and lifted the bloody shirt. I had to fight not to retch. He’d been shot in the left side, above the visible curve of his hip bone. There was a blown-out area the size of a ping-pong ball. Through the gore I saw a glimpse of something shiny and tubular. Internal organs.
Oh my God.
Don’t look. Don’t think about it. Just help him.
I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know much about gut wounds except that he probably had internal bleeding and that it could be fatal. But he wasn’t shot in the heart or lungs, so he had a chance. Except for the bleeding. There was way too much blood.
I wished I’d taken a more extensive first-aid class. I wished I knew exactly what to do to save him. I remembered, from the cop shows my mom loved, that they always put pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding. I looked around but didn’t see anything close by, so I tore my T-shirt over my head, rolled it into a ball, and pressed it to Brian’s wound.
He cried out in pain and tried to double up. But he didn’t push my hand away.
“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said. “But I have to stop the bleeding.”
“Yeah,” Brian grunted, giving a growl of agony. He made himself relax back to the floor, breathing hard through his mouth. “I think it’s coming out the back too.” His teeth chattered.
“Right.” If the bullet went all the way through him, there’d be two wounds. I didn’t have anything left to use, but a few feet away there was a soft-looking pink purse. With silent apologies to the owner, who I hoped was still alive, I left him long enough to grab it. I pushed it under him, hoping it would stop the blood, and went back to pressing my T-shirt into his stomach with both hands.
“You’re gonna be all right, I swear to God.” My voice was firmer now. Resolute.
Brian looked up at me, his eyes full of pain and fear. Of doubt.
“Screw that, Brian. You are gonna make it,” I told him in a bossy tone, rage giving it an edge. “Don’t you hear the sirens? They’re already on their way.”
It was weird because I hadn’t been consciously aware of sirens, but as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized they were true. I heard sirens. They were coming.
“Cops, ambulances, fire department—they’re gonna be here in just a minute. You’ll make it out of here, Brian. I swear.”
I pressed the wound with both hands, leaning close. But Brian didn’t respond. His eyes were getting a little glassy, and he looked over my shoulder at nothing.
“Brian!”
He blinked and focused on my face.
“Look at me. Okay? What’s your last name?”
I already knew, of course. But I wanted to get him talking.
“M-Marshall.”
“Yeah? You play football, right?”
Brian nodded. His teeth chattered. “It hurts. Oh, goddamn, it hurts.”
“I know. Hey, bud. I’m right here. I’m not gonna leave you until the EMTs arrive. Just think about….” I struggled to find the right words. “Think about a few weeks from now, when you’re out of the hospital and your folks take you out to eat to celebrate. Where you gonna go?”
Brian stared at me blankly.
“Where you gonna go, Brian,” I insisted, deliberately pushy. I could feel the blood soaking through the T-shirt in my hands. I was terrified at any moment the light would go out of his eyes. And I didn’t think I could bear that. God, he was so beautiful and so young. And something deeper than that. Looking into his eyes at that moment, I felt there was so much more of him that deserved, needed, to be known.
“T-Tony’s Pizza.” I could barely understand him, he was shivering so badly.
“Tony’s Pizza. Good choice. Have you ever tried their margherita pizza?”
“Lame,” Brian croaked. “Pepperoni sausage.”
I forced a grin. “All right. I hear ya. I like pepperoni and sausage too. But I thought you elite athletes had to eat healthy.”
Brian’s face crumpled. One of his bloody hands grasped my wrist, like he just needed to touch someone.
My heart turned over with an agonized thud. The sadness threatened to break me. “Look, I know it hurts, and this whole thing is scary as fuck. But try to think of something else. Okay? Go to your Zen place. Look in my eyes, Brian.”
Brian took a wobbly breath. “Zen? Really, dude?”
I smiled big. “Hey, if it works for the Dalai Lama…. You want to hear some good news?”
Brian nodded. There was something in the way he looked at me, like my face was the only thing he had to cling to, like he was fighting so hard to stay with me.
“I’ve been getting texts from my friend. She’s out by the football field with a bunch of others. People are making it out. And you will too, Brian.”
He didn’t argue, but his mouth turned down.
“You will. I promise.” I looked over my shoulder at the big glass windows, now shattered or missing entirely. They showed the front entry and sidewalk, but I didn’t see anyone there.
Where the hell were the police? The EMTs? Were they hanging back because the shooters were still roaming the halls? Would the shooters come back to the cafeteria?
I wanted to check my phone to see if there was anything more from 911. But I couldn’t let go of Brian. His fingers tightened on my wrist. I wished I could take his hand, but I couldn’t let up the pressure on his wound.
“I d-don’t want to die, Landon.” His eyes filled with tears.
I was surprised that he knew my name. But right then it didn’t matter that we had never been friends, that he was the quarterback who every girl mooned over and I was the gay wannabe intellectual who hated cliques and didn’t think much of jocks. Right then it was him and me, life or death, and all that bullshit was cleared away. We were just people. Human beings. And when he looked into my eyes, I felt his soul, real and unmasked. I saw a person who was vulnerable and still and deep.
My soul answered back. It was a stronger moment of connection than any I’d ever felt in my life.
“Then don’t die. Okay? You must have to psych yourself up for games, so psych yourself up right now. I’m with you, and I’ve stopped the bleeding, so we’ve got time. It’s like a car, right? Your systems are a little damaged, but you’re stabilized for now. Soon the EMTs will come take over, t
hey’ll get you to the hospital, and you’ll be golden. All you need to do is relax and keep your body as calm as you can. Save your strength. Can you do that?”
“’Kay,” Brian agreed, nodding seriously.
“You’re a ballplayer, so I know you’re physically tough. You’ve got this.”
Brian squeezed my wrist. “Will you…. Will you kiss me?” he asked, his voice hardly a whisper.
I stared down at him in shock. What?
Why would Brian Marshall want me to kiss him? Was this a last-rites thing? Did he really think he would die? Or was he just looking for comfort, like his mother or sister might give him?
“Sure,” I said easily. “Whatever you want.”
It was true. Whatever he asked me at that moment, I’d do it. A kiss was a small enough thing to give him.
I leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. I kissed him as tenderly as I could and lingered, my lips against his skin, feeling the texture of his hair against my cheek. I nearly lost it and blubbered like a baby, but I managed to get myself together before straightening up.
“Anything else you want while I’m here? Foot massage?” I asked him, trying to joke because I couldn’t bear the feels in that moment.
Brian half laughed, half cried. “Just don’t leave me, Landon. Okay?”
“I’m not going anywhere, Brian. Not going anywhere.”
Part II. Aftermath
“Made of Glass” by Brian Marshall
I smile and walk and talk,
A puppet with no puppeteer.
Look how I raise my hand to wave.
Look how I open my schoolbook and obediently direct my eyes to the page.
You speak and, marvel! I respond appropriately.
I have not forgotten the words,
Even if I have forgotten their meaning.
Line us up and wind the key and watch us act our parts.
Breakfast, class, lunch, class, dinner, bed.
Breakfast, class, lunch, class, dinner, bed.
Breakfast, class, lunch, class, dinner, bed!
But don’t you see?
Someone turned out the lights and the audience left ages ago.
We mime this farce for no one.
Breakfast, class, lunch, class, dinner, bed.
Breakfast, class, lunch, class, dinner, bed.
I am made of glass.
Glass on the outside. Do not tap. Exceedingly fragile.
Glass on the inside, grinding away with every motion.
The sweetest gesture is horrible when you are made of glass.
If I were to hand you a rose and give you a courtly bow,
It would cut my heart to shreds.
I smile at you with bloody teeth.
Pack me in a case of softest velvet and let me rest, let me be motionless.
A glass figurine of a boy who used to be.
Chapter 5
Brian
I WAS underwater for a long time. I couldn’t find the surface. I knew I should be drowning, but I never died. Sometimes I was aware that I was dreaming, and I would try to force myself awake. Sometimes I even thought I was awake, only to realize I was still sleeping.
And sometimes I was back at school.
I ran in a series of endless hallways. In the distance there was gunfire, and at each intersection I would stop and listen. But no matter which direction I chose, the gunfire grew louder. I was sweating and sweating, my heart pounding, so choked with terror I couldn’t scream.
Sometime later, I hid from a shooter in a kitchen under a mound of marshmallows. They kept falling off me, and I kept trying to mound them up again before the shooter appeared. Then he stood over me, and I looked up at a backlit figure pointing a gun at me. It was a big, buff figure, and it was familiar….
Someone squeezed my hand. “I think he’s waking up.”
I opened my eyes. My mom was in a chair next to my bed, holding my hand. My dad was next to her, looming over me, and my sister, Lisa, was sitting in a chair, feet on the seat, staring at me with big, teary eyes. Mom had been crying too, her face puffy and red. My dad’s mouth was in a grim line.
“Oh, honey,” my mom said, hiccupping a sob. “There you are!”
“Hey, son. You’re gonna be all right.” Dad leaned down to pat my leg through the blankets.
“Brian, are you okay?” Lisa asked with a trembling lower lip. She was four years younger than me, skinny, with brown eyes and long dark hair that always looked messy.
Was I okay?
“What’s happening?” I tried to sit up, but there was a sharp pain in my stomach and a nauseating, tugging sensation.
“No, honey, now lie still.” A nurse was at the window, having just opened the drapes. Maybe the light was what woke me up. She came bustling over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Relax! I’ll put the bed up for you.”
She used a button to raise the head of the bed. I tried not to move and breathed through my nose as the pain faded. My head felt all loopy. I didn’t like the feeling of being so drugged up. Or being in a—
Oh. I was in the hospital. There’d been a shooter at our school, and I’d been shot.
I was alive. Oh my God. I’d really thought….
A vivid flash of memory came to me. I was lying on the cafeteria floor, certain I was going to die. A stab of pain went through my heart, and my stomach fluttered with an echo of the panic I’d felt.
Landon. Then Landon Hughes had been there. I could still hear the exact tone of his voice as he told me, in a bossy way, that I wasn’t allowed to die.
Margherita pizza.
Will you kiss me?
Holy…. Had I really asked that? Oh God.
“Do you want some water, Brian? Is there anything we can get you?” Mom asked. She turned to the nurse. “Wouldn’t he feel better if he ate something? With the drugs and all? I know he’s on a liquid diet, but maybe a little apple juice?”
“Water,” I croaked.
“We’ve got that covered, honey,” the nurse said cheerfully. She held a plastic cup with a straw to my mouth.
The liquid was heaven. I could feel my mouth coming back from mummification. I looked up at the nurse as I sucked on the straw. She had a warm and motherly sort of face, was maybe in her forties, and she was black. I hoped my dad wouldn’t be rude to her. He never used to be racist, but that was another thing that had changed in the past two years.
“Not too much at one time,” she said, motioning upward with her chin.
I let go of the straw and gave her a smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ll go get you some fresh ice. Don’t try to move, sweetness.” She bustled out of the room.
Lisa came over to the side of the bed where the nurse had just been. She petted my shoulder, still looking tearful.
“Hey. It’s okay,” I told her, though I wasn’t sure about that.
“How do you feel?” Mom took my hand again, squeezing it hard. “For goodness’ sake, Brian, we thought—” She bit off her words.
“I’m okay, Mom,” I repeated, because I couldn’t stand it if she and Lisa started crying.
“It’s so weird and gross that you were shot, Bri,” Lisa said. “It’s not fair. And I don’t want to ever, ever go to that school!”
Lisa was in seventh grade, so she’d go to The Wall in two more years. The thought made me sick. I made a strangled sound in my throat.
“Lisa, go down to the cafeteria and get an apple juice for your brother,” my dad said with a bite to his voice. He took out his wallet and handed her a five.
“Okay,” Lisa said eagerly. “I’ll get you some juice, Bri. Be right back.” With a last wobbly smile at me, she left the room.
I rubbed my face. With Lisa gone, I could ask about the gory details. “What happened? I was shot in the gut. Did they operate or….” I tried to look down at my stomach, but the sheets and a gown were in the way, and it seemed like way too much effort to move them.
“You were lucky,” Mom said in a fake upbeat voic
e, wiping her eyes. “They had to remove part of your colon and small intestine, but the doctor says you should be able to function normally. You’ll need to be on IV antibiotics for a few more days, and you’ll have to take it easy. But you’re gonna be fine.”
“Better than fine!” My dad gave me an attaboy smile. “I know you’d hate to miss your first year as quarterback, son. But you’ll bounce back. We’ll show those doctors a thing or two, huh?”
Mom patted my hand. “Well, now, you just take as long as you need to recover. The important thing is you’re alive, and you’re in good hands. There’s no reason why you can’t live a full life, the doctor says. Praise the Lord.”
“Guess you can get along without all your intestines. Smart of you to get hit where you had some extra,” my dad joked.
“Yes, we’re all very lucky.” Mom sniffled. “Everyone from church sends their thoughts and prayers. Reverend Arnold said he’d stop by tomorrow.”
“And Bull asked me to tell you he’s real sorry you were shot,” Dad said.
Bull was my dad’s friend from work, a guy who would go on about Democrat pedophile rings and QAnon for hours if you so much as looked at him twice. My dad and I had been really close until two years ago when he started hanging out with Bull. I hated what my dad had become, so Bull was not exactly my favorite person.
I hoped to God he didn’t visit me. Or Reverend Arnold either, for that matter. Where were my friends?
“What about Jake?” I asked. “Cameron. Gordo. Coach? There were so many… I saw—” I couldn’t finish that sentence. Could not. I swallowed down a hot lump. “And the shooters—did they…. They got them, right? Who did it? Are they dead?”
I felt myself ramping up, anxiety climbing. The monitor next to my bed beeped. It sounded like an alarm. Please tell me the shooters are dead.
My mom looked up at my dad. “Now, Brian, you don’t need to worry about that right now,” she said in a soothing voice.
But my dad grimaced. “They got away. You tell me that’s normal. That ain’t normal!”
“They…. What?” I gasped.
“Clean as a whistle. You tell me a couple of kids coulda done that.” He shook his head bitterly.
