That’s a chilling figure.
I almost don’t want to read on, but I know in my gut it’s important that I do.
…considered one of the worst mass shootings in American history… Whitmire’s elderly parents were found shot dead in their homes by investigators after the shooting… Armed with a variety of guns, including an antique fletcher gun, an M-16, a Remington 7600, and submachine guns and assault rifles apparently brought into the school in several large canvas bags and concealed in different places inside the building immediately prior to the attack… Whitmire used hollow pointed bullets and flechette rounds. His manifesto stated that he wanted to “ensure maximum carnage” and “rip up those snot nosed little sons of bitches as much as I can before the end…so that they suffer the way they all deserve to”... He reverted to standard ammunition when he ran outof HPBs… After using his tenth and last Molotov cocktail, Whitmire committed suicide by firearm at the scene moments before SWAT teams were able to enter the school building… Three of the eight survivors died by suicide within two years of the tragedy… Unlike other school shootings, in which survivors have cooperated with documentaries on the subject, none of the remaining Nolan High Prom attendees have ever been willing to talk about what happened that night, and have repeatedly declined or refused to be interviewed, or to contribute to any articles on the incident… The President’s comments in a speech to the nation expressed sorrow and -
I don’t give a rat’s arse what the President at the time thought or said.
My stomach tightens unpleasantly. I normally have a high tolerance for graphic descriptions of violence, but it’s very different when you know one of the people directly involved. Mental images of Dean lying in a pool of blood, fighting to stay alive and trying to breathe through a torn throat until help arrives, flash through my mind unbidden. No wonder he refuses to discuss it. He can’t want to be thought of in that way, or to be reminded of such a horrifying event.
I flick through some other sites. I remember some of the photos from the time - I was newly teenaged myself when it happened, and it made international news just like Columbine did - but they’re hitting harder now. The fires in the doorways, preventing anyone from leaving, are straight from a hellscape. And the iconic award winning Nolan High photo of the school hallway, after the bodies were removed, with blood spatters up the wall and over the student lockers and trophy display cases… Is any of that blood Dean’s?
I gulp hard. I don’t want to see any more photos. I know there are shots of other school shooters’ dead bodies from a different, equally high profile shooting readily available forconsumption on the net. I wouldn’t want to see anything similar for this.
Back on the Wikipedia page, on the list of the eight survivors, Dean is the last one.
Dean Gastright, 18, senior student. Shots sustained to neck and upper back from an M-16.
He shot him in the back.
I’m a linguist, and I am unable to think of any adequate words in any language to describe how horrifying that is. Thatbastard. What kind of cowardly monster shoots a fleeing teenage boy in theback? Murders over two hundred people because he wasannoyed?
I don’t remember the last time I was this angry, or this nauseated.
I’m not a huge fan of brandy, but my father gave me some for Christmas a couple of years ago, and I need that soothing warmth right now, so I pour myself a tumbler and sip it slowly. I knew, of course I knew, that being involved inanyschool shooting would have been traumatising. But I had no idea justhowbad it could get.
Hollow pointed bullets.
I feel numb as I picture the damage they would have inflicted on all those innocent, unsuspecting people. Dean must have been shot after the hollow pointed bullets had all been used, because there’s no chance he would have survived otherwise.
Curiously, I touch my face, A single tear is slowly trickling down my cheek. I mop it up with one finger and stare at it in surprise. In the general scheme of things, I am not a crier. I haven’t wept since I was eight, when I woke up to find that my gerbil, Chomsky, had died.
Perhaps this thing with Dean is not something I should pursue.
Not because of anything he’s done, and certainly not that there’s anything wrong with him, but because I might not be the best person for him to get involved with. I live in my own head, permanently preoccupied with my own nonsense. My career. How many papers I’ve had published in the academic year so far. Television and radio appearances. Things that now seem very privileged and sheltered and navel-gazey when compared to all of Dean’s life experiences, and the realities he has to live with. He likely needs someone warm and tender and…good. I’m not a bad person, but I wouldn’t call myselfactivelygood, either. I’m not a candidate for sainthood. I don’t volunteer for soup kitchens or skydive to raise money for charity or rescue abandoned puppies or anything. I just work, work, work,all the time. It’s all I've ever known, right from childhood. Even in my scant free time, I’ve been conditioned to find something productive to do.Always do something constructive and meaningful. Don’t fritter away your gift on pointless nonsense. Laziness is ingratitude. It’s your privilege to have these opportunities and capabilities. Make the most of them.
I feel a wave of crushing disappointment. I really did want to see where this could go between us, if he was interested. At least I wanted to build some terrifically sexy memories with him. But maybe that’s not the right thing to do, for his sake. I don’t want to hurt him or cause him any problems.
Feeling sad and hollowed out, I settle back at my desk so I can look at my next ASL lesson, so I can at least talk to him in his own language for our remaining appointments together before I never see him again.
And then I notice the Facebook tab for ‘Dean Gastright’ is still open.
I have a strong, irresistible impulse to contact him, just to see what he’s doing this evening. To see if he’s OK. It doesn’t feel like pity. It feels likeneed.
If I’m planning to back off, this is not the smart move, and I’ve spent my entire life to date always,alwaysmaking the smart moves. But I can’t resist. And I don’t want to.
So, for the first time in my life, I ignore logic and click onadd friend.
Dean
Liaden O’Brien has sentyou a friend request.
What?
Oh my god.
Fuck.
I stare at my phone for ages, not really sure what to do with it. Reply? Stick it in the refrigerator and pretend it didn’t happen?
