Boy Shattered

by Eli Easton

  “John,” my mom warned, only it sounded faint because my ears were suddenly filled with cotton.

  A vision came over me like a dark tidal wave. The rat-tat-tat-tat of gunfire down the hall. Me hiding by the water fountain as gunfire came closer. The other students huddling behind tables. The terror on their faces. The surreal sight of tables, chairs, windows, and bodies jerking in a devil’s dance.

  “No. No!” I ripped my hand from my mom and tried to get out of bed.

  “Honey, it’s okay,” Mom said.

  “Brian,” Dad barked.

  “No!”

  I had to find a place to hide. I pushed off the sheets and started to swing my legs over the edge of the bed, but the pain in my gut stopped me. It was so bad, I choked in a breath, and my eyes watered.

  “Oh, sweetie, it’s all comin’ back. I know. I know.” The nurse was there. Her voice was soft and her hands firm as she pushed me back down and sort of hugged me at the same time. “Come on, baby. You’re safe here. I promise. No one’s gonna hurt you. Relax.”

  I would have fought her, but the pain was crippling. My dad held my shoulders to the bed while the nurse injected something in the IV line.

  “Please help me,” I slurred just before things went dark.

  THE SECOND time I woke up, it was twilight outside, the sky a muted purple through the window. The room was quiet. I could see the back of my mother, standing in the doorway talking to someone.

  I lay there on my back and stared up at the ceiling. There’d been a shooting at my school. So many had died. I’d seen it happen. And somehow the two shooters had gotten away. That was so wrong. It couldn’t be true.

  It was too much. The pain inside was too much. I didn’t know how to live with it.

  Then I remembered looking up into someone’s face. Landon Hughes. I’d said hi to Landon only a handful of times before, nothing more. But he’d stayed with me. He’d held my hand, pressed my wound, and kept me from bleeding to death. He’d saved my life.

  I could see his face like he was still with me. The expression he had, so earnest and determined. Like he cared about me. He’d been so… so kind. I’d looked into his eyes and it was like we were seeing each other so clearly, so truly.

  Scalding hot liquid seeped from the corners of my eyes. It was good that there were people in the world like Landon. It was a tiny defense against the horror that people were capable of. But maybe… maybe that tiny bit was enough. A light in the darkness.

  Cops, ambulances, fire department—they’re gonna be here in just a minute. You’ll make it out of here, Brian. I swear.

  I wished Landon was there right now. Because it felt like part of me was still bleeding out and maybe he could hold me together.

  My mom sat down in the chair next to the bed, a tense smile on her face. “You’re awake.”

  “Yeah.” My voice croaked, an octave deeper than usual.

  “How are you feeling?” She took my hand, watching me warily.

  “Like crap.”

  Her smile got braver. “I’m sure you are. But so far there’re no signs of infection, so that’s great news. That’s the major danger with a stomach wound, the doctor says. A few more days and you’ll be in the clear.”

  Great. So I was still in danger. That was nice.

  I tried to sit up, but my mom stopped me. “Let me. Don’t try to do it yourself, Brian. You’ll tear something.”

  She raised me up a little with the remote, then handed it to me.

  “Listen, there’s someone here from the police. They want to talk to you, but if you’re not up for it—”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Mom looked worried. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. If they had information on the shooting, I wanted to hear it.

  She went out and brought back a man. He was wearing an old brown suit jacket and tie, not a cop’s uniform. He was maybe in his thirties with dark hair and a tough but weary face.

  “Hi, Brian. I’m Detective Mike Flannagan. But everyone calls me Detective Mike.”

  He held out a hand, and I shook it, my grip weak.

  “Hi. So have you caught the guys?” I asked.

  His mouth drew into a line. “Not yet. Feel up to answering some questions?”

  I nodded.

  He took out his phone. “I’m just gonna record this so I don’t forget anything. Can you tell me exactly what happened? Everything you can remember.”

  I swallowed, my stomach fluttering. I told him, using as few words as possible. From deciding to go to Lunch A, to the alarm, to finding the hole in my stomach. Mom hovered in the background at first, but she soon left the room, like she couldn’t listen to any more.

  “Did you get a look at the shooters?” he asked me.

  “No. I was behind the water fountain.”

  “Um-hmm. Um-hmm.” He pursed his lips. “What about in the window, like a reflection. Did you see them there?”

  “I—” I stopped, thinking about it. It never occurred to me that I might have seen their reflection. Had I? “I don’t remember seeing that.”

  A wave of nausea rolled my stomach at the idea, at the memories brought up when I tried to picture it. My fists clenched in the sheets.

  “Okay.” Detective Mike nodded calmly. “And what did you hear?”

  “Nothing. Gunfire.” I swallowed hard.

  “They never said anything? To each other or to the room? Maybe before or after they started firing?”

  “No.”

  I couldn’t remember anything like that either. My back suddenly felt hot and sweaty against the bed.

  “Okay.” Detective Mike smiled. “That’s fine. One last thing. Can you do me a favor and give me the names of anyone you saw in the cafeteria? Perhaps when you first entered or were in line getting your food? We’re trying to get a lock on where everyone was that day. Any names you can give me would be a big help.”

  My throat was dry. There was a glass of water on the bedside table, and I drank a few sips. My stomach ached and throbbed.

  I named everyone I remembered seeing. The guys I’d bumped fists with. People who I exchanged nods or smiles with. Everyone I could think of.

  “Can you wrap it up, please?” That was my mom, standing in the doorway. “He’s obviously in pain.”

  “Sure,” Detective Mike said easily. He took out a card. “I’m going to leave this with you, Brian. If anything occurs to you later on, you can call or text me. My email’s on there too. Sometimes the subconscious mind takes in details we don’t remember until later. Okay?”

  He put the card on the table and turned to go.

  “How many?” I asked, my voice thin.

  “Honey, I don’t think—” My mom started.

  “It’s okay,” I said quietly. “I’m not gonna freak out again. But I need to know. Please.”

  Detective Mike looked at my mom, then at me. “Forty-two were killed. There are a dozen still in the hospital, like you.”

  Forty-two. I stared at the ceiling again. God, so many. Who were they? Were they my friends? My teachers? Guys I ran drills with at football practice?

  “What about Landon Hughes?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  I felt along the bed and found the remote. I pressed it, bringing the head of the bed up farther. This was important. “Landon Hughes. He kept me from bleeding out. He held—he stayed with me. Is he all right?”

  I had no memory of the ambulance or how I’d gotten out of the cafeteria. So I wasn’t sure if Landon had been safe in the end.

  My mom stepped forward, her expression soft. “The boy who helped you? Yes, he’s okay, honey. In fact, I saw him on the news this morning.”

  Thank God.

  “What about Jake? Cameron? Gordo? Jennifer?”

  “Brian, I’m gonna let you talk to your mom,” Detective Mike said. “Unfortunately, I can’t discuss the investigation, and not all the names have been released. But thanks again for talking to me. You’ve been a big help. Speed
y recovery.”

  He left the room. But I wasn’t about to let my questions go.

  “Mom? What about my friends?”

  Her expression wavered—a flicker of grief, like she was trying to hide it. She hesitated. “Jennifer’s fine. And Cameron and Gordo too.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. The pressure on my chest threatened to crush me. “Jake’s dead?”

  “I’m so sorry, honey.” Mom smoothed back my hair, her voice wobbly. “I know you’ve been through an ordeal, and it’s so, so hard. But I promise you God won’t give us any more than we’re able to bear. Everything will be all right.”

  She was wrong. I already had more than I could bear.

  Chapter 6

  Brian

  CAMERON TEXTED me about Jake’s funeral. It was on Thursday, six days after the shooting, the same day I was supposed to get out of the hospital. I pushed my mom hard to let me go, even though she was worried I’d open my sutures or pass out or something.

  I owed it to Jake. I’d survived, and he hadn’t. The least I could do was stand up for him, be there for him, the one last time I had the chance.

  For once, my dad agreed with me. He’d told my mom, “He wants to tough it out. Pay his respects. He can handle it.” He’d given me a clap on the back like he was proud of me.

  At the time, I’d been walking back from the bathroom in one of those stupid hospital gowns, wheeling an IV full of stuff that was supposed to keep me from being killed by the sewage that had spilled out of my bowels. Good times. My dad’s backslap echoed down my body and made my incision throb. I’d gritted my teeth into a smile.

  My dad had been weird. He acted too jovial, all fake and hearty, like everything was A-okay. It was like he had no clue what I’d been through, how I’d nearly died. The doctor had to have told my parents how close it had been. Hell, they’d been standing in the room when the doctor had told me I was lucky to be alive.

  But it wasn’t the time to bring it up, not when my dad was on my side about going to Jake’s funeral.

  On Thursday morning, my mom helped me dress in a white shirt, navy blazer, and tie she’d brought to the hospital. I couldn’t wear regular pants yet, not with my sutures. They’d only removed the drain tube that morning, and everything was really sore down there. So I wore a pair of black sweatpants with an elastic waist that was the nicest pair my mom could find. And my dress shoes. Yeah, I was rocking the walking-wounded look.

  We drove across town, and my parents dropped me off at the front door of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. They were going to park and attend the service too, but I’d insisted I go in by myself. I knew people from school would be there, and I needed to be able to hang with them without the ’rents breathing over my shoulder.

  I’d watched news about the shooting on my phone. It was a huge story—CNN, MSNBC, even BBC carried it. I had to sneak views when my mom went down to the cafeteria or left for the night. She didn’t want me “getting myself upset.”

  In the videos, I’d seen other students from The Wall grieving together. There’d been a huge lighted vigil outside the school, kids hugging and crying. I felt like I’d missed out not being a part of that. My hospital room filled up with cards, balloons, flowers, and shit I couldn’t eat. I’d had visits from my coach and even Principal Baylor, though my mom had kept out what she called “random well-wishers” and anyone from the news. That had been fine with me. I’d slept a lot.

  But since the day of the shooting, I hadn’t been with anyone my age who really knew, no one who’d been where I’d been. I needed to be around people who understood, to talk about it, be angry together, grieve together. To howl at the fucking moon with my pack. Or as close to a pack as I had left.

  After my dad dropped me off, I slowly made my way up the steps. People passed me by like I was some broken-down old vehicle in the slow lane. I recognized some faces but didn’t see anyone I knew well. Up ahead, a group of my teammates—Aaron, James, and Silas—went into the church, looking all somber in jackets and ties.

  There were so many people there. It was like Easter Sunday, only everyone was wearing black and looked like they’d been kicked in the balls. There were news cameras in the street. They were interviewing people. God, that was the last thing I wanted. I’d probably lose it and humiliate myself on national television if someone stuck a mic in my face.

  I made eye contact with a pretty, dark-haired girl from my American History class. Her face was puffy and red like she’d been crying for days. She gave me a wide-eyed look and a smile that seemed to say, Hey! I’m glad you’re okay. I gave her one back. Me too, you. My chest felt tight, and I had to look away.

  Another step up. And another.

  It was weird being outside. I felt exposed. There was so much space all around. The tall building across the street had so many windows, windows where someone could be watching, choosing a target. Maybe the slow guy with the limp.

  Another step up. I tried to hurry, bit back the pain.

  I stepped through the stone portal and into a tiled lobby. Colors from stained glass windows spilled across the white marble floor—gold, purple, red. I looked away from the colors quickly.

  “Welcome, son.” A man in a black robe and purple stole handed me a flier. He had a sad smile and patted my elbow.

  “Thanks,” I muttered.

  It was crowded. The people in front of me shuffled forward, and I shuffled with them. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the flier was black-and-white. It had Jake’s photo on it. I clutched it, unable to look at it, not yet.

  Sweat broke out on my neck and under my shirt. I’d only taken a quarter of a pain pill, not wanting to be too stoned to show up. But now my gut ached like a bitch. Maybe Mom had been right. Maybe it was too soon to do this. But, dammit, it was Jake, the guy with the weird addiction to Diet Coke, who dressed as Batman for Halloween when we were twelve, and who once shaved his ankles because he thought it would make him run faster. Jake. Neanderthal Man. My best friend.

  I stepped into the first pew that was open, which was the second one from the back. I half sat, half fell onto the seat, bent my head, and looked down at my hands. They were fishy pale, glowing with sweat, and shaking. I’d gotten a glimpse of the front of the church, where a shiny black coffin was topped with flowers and a photo. But I couldn’t look at it again.

  Get it together, man. Get it together.

  “Brian?”

  I looked up to see Gordo and Cameron standing in the aisle. “Hey!” I said. It was good to see them.

  I scooted down, and they moved sideways into the pew. There was an awkward attempt at a hug from both before they sat. They looked so strange in their jackets and ties. I’d never seen either one of them in anything but football uniforms, jeans, or sweats.

  “Dude, heard you almost fucking bit it, huh?” Cameron nudged my shoulder. His eyes were troubled and his expression dark. He glanced up at the front of the church, toward the coffin. He chewed on his thumbnail. “Like Jake, man. Shit! I can’t believe this is for real. You know?”

  “Jake,” Gordo agreed in a disbelieving tone.

  “He was the best,” Cameron said. “It blows donkey ass.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “I mean, where the fuck were you? I heard you were in the cafeteria?” Cameron asked.

  I grunted. Yeah.

  “Why the fuck were you there? Dude. You have B-block lunch.” Cameron was speaking too loud. Some older people in front of us turned to glare at his cursing, but Cameron ignored them.

  “Decided to grab lunch early,” I said defensively.

  “Bad move.” Gordo shook his head, like I’d been stupid. “Can’t believe you were actually shot.”

  “And Jake. Fuckin’ Jake.” Cameron chewed his thumbnail some more.

  “Why didn’t he stay in his classroom?” Gordo complained. “That’s what we’re s’posed to do. What the hell were they thinking?”

  Well, he was probably thinking about escaping. He
was probably thinking he could get out without being shot in the back. At least he died instantly. That’s what they said. No pain, Jake. No pain.

  “He was just tryin’ to get out, man,” Cameron said in an impatient voice. “Shut up about that. Jesus. You act like it was his fault.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  Gordo was sitting on the other side of Cameron. I glanced at him and did a double take. He had hollows under his eyes, a flush on his oily cheeks, his acne worse than I’d ever seen it. His face was swollen and red, and he vibrated with nervous energy.

  Cameron looked me over and patted my leg awkwardly. “You gonna be okay, Bri? You look wrecked. No offense.”

  Gordo leaned over Cameron to study me. “Yeah, man. You don’t look so hot. Sorry you were hurt, Brian. Seriously, man.”

  I nodded. Thanks. “Doctor says I’ll be fine.”

  “We lost two guys on the team. Austin and Jake. And you’re out of commission.” Cameron shook his head unhappily. “Game was canceled this weekend, obviously. They haven’t even said when we’ll be playing again.”

  “You’re comin’ back, right?” Gordo asked.

  I swallowed. “Doubt it.” My voice was rough. “Can’t do anything strenuous for at least eight weeks.”

  “Fuckin’ hell, man!” Cameron growled. “We can’t lose our quarterback too!”

  “Not the quarterback!” Gordo agreed with a shake of his head.

  I blinked. I always thought Gordo was jealous of me, at least a little. Like, secretly he would have loved to be quarterback. Maybe that’s why he didn’t strike me as all that sincere.

  “So where were you guys when it happened?” I asked.

  “Detention,” Gordo said. “We barricaded the door and everything. People were screaming. It was freaky as hell.”

  “I was in the bathroom,” Cameron put in with a slight cough. “Heard the shots and stayed in there. Yeah, like Gordo said, it was freaky.” Cameron shook his head, but his face sort of froze up.

  “Freaky” was hardly the word for the horror I’d seen. A vision of the cafeteria flashed through my head. After. The red on the floor. Looking down to see the raw hole in my gut.