Dean
Shit.
Don’t misunderstand me; I love that she’s here, love that she’s comfortable enough with me to drop by like this, but at the same time…I amsotired. I really,reallyneed at least a little sleep soon. She stayed over last night, and I stayed awake all night long for her, and now I’m going to have to do the same again. I’ve done a couple of days without sleep before, but it’snot an experience I enjoy. I get spacy and short tempered, and I don’t want to do my appointments feeling that way.
Still, I think as she sleeps in my arms, I really would do anything for this woman. And her safety is more important than any amount of exhaustion I may feel. So I pull her closer, smiling at how she mumbles in her sleep as she snuggles in, and take a deep breath. I won’t be able to get up and move around to keep myself awake, or go get some coffee, but I can do some long division or recite long lists of some shit to test my memory, like the presidents, the Roman emperors, whatever.
And at least I picked up some of that instant espresso powder earlier today, so I can stay alert enough to work.
My stomach starts to knot and twist when I think about how this problem could pan out, but I’ve got all night to come up with a solution. And it’s not as though I trulyneeda lot of sleep, anyway. I can get by.
Dean
Running.
Always running.
He’s always just behind me, about to shoot me clean in half. And I can never get enough distance between him and me. I can never run hard enough, push myself hard enough, and I hate myself for it.
I don’t want to go into that room. I know what happens in there. I know she’s cowering, safer where she is until I burst in. I know I lead him directly to her, and no matter how badly I don’t want to, no matter how much I fight against it, my feet run into the same fucking room every time.
Maybe just once I can change the outcome, make it so that he shoots me but misses her. Would that be better, experiencing it how it should have happened, or worse, seeing it and knowing I can never make it real? I don’t know, but it’s a mindfuck.
I’m in. There she is. I want to tell her to hide better, move some of the classroom furniture to conceal her myself, but my body won’t cooperate and I don’t know why.
Her eyes were so terrified.
The door exploding open. He’s here. I scramble backwards. He’s touching me, grabbing for me. That’s not how it happened. That’s not how it fucking happened. He never put a hand on me, he just shot me. Don’t fucking touch me. He’s shaking me. No. NO. Don’t you dare fucking touch me…
Somehow, I manage to shove with all my might, my limbs finally doing what I want them to do, and watching him stumble back against the door frame feels good, feelsgreat, fuck you, Whitmire, I hope it fucking hurt -
“Ah!” he grunts, and that’s not Whitmire’s voice. It’s not. It’s…
Leo?
I’m confused. I’m not in the classroom anymore. I’m in my tattoo studio, and Leo’s in front of me, wincing and holding his head. There’s blood streaming down his face, and his eyebrow is split.
And then, like a bucket of ice water, everything becomes clear.
I’m sat in my dentist style chair. I must have fallen asleep. I didn’t get much so far this week. I was having one of my nightmares. And when I thought I was shoving Whitmire, I was actually shoving my cousin, who was just trying to wake me up…
Eli comes in, and as always, his and Leo’s first concern is for me, for my state of mind, rather than getting Leo to hospital to have the stitches he obviously needs because I attacked him.
I’m a curse. I’m a blight on this family. And for the life of me, I will never understand why I couldn’t have just fucking died that night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Dean
Hi Dean.
Haven’t spoken in a long, long time. I hear you’re living in England, that’s awesome. Hope you got some peace and are doing good. Hope you don’t mind me contacting you like this, your sister gave me your email address. Was really happy to see how well she’s doing, as well.
This is a surprisingly hard message to write. I want to start upfront by saying I’m not gonna make you do anything you don’t wanna, and I’m not here to make you uncomfortable. Unfortunately, what I’m planning to do might do that anyway.
I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I want to write a book about what happened that night.
I’m not doing this to cash in on our trauma, I cannot make that clear enough. I don’t give a shit if I don’t make a cent, and anything I do make is going to a charitable foundation I’m setting up to help survivors of school shootings, kids just like us. I’m not profiting from any of it myself, and I can provide paperwork to prove it. It’s not about that.
