Final Room

13 | tina shepard

CHAPTER THIRTEEN | TINA SHEPARD

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

          The fact that praise of my strength—of character, of spirit, or even just my physical strength—often has to come at the expense of my friends and Zach makes me sick to my stomach. I'd much rather listen to people blabber on and on about my luck than to hear them say I found hidden strength even when everything about my circumstances at the time was stacked against my survival.

          It's very easy to look away, to stand on the other side of the line (gone through a traumatic event that left everyone dead but them versus didn't go through such a thing), and spew out bullshit that they think is helpful, and it's also incredibly easy to at least try and look at things from my perspective. Trying is easy, but actually succeeding is near impossible, so I try not to take it personally. Regular people just aren't equipped to deal with something like that and, truth be told, neither was I.

          Until the moment I had to be.

          Doctor Albott telling me she thought I was strong before The Incident and not thanks to it was a good, rich meal for my ego, one that made the guilt subside for a bit, but now I understand why that happened. The guilt was quick to be replaced with the painful realization that my survival, strength-fueled, happened at the detriment of everyone else's because they weren't strong enough. Knowing that implication doesn't make me feel any better.

          After all this time grappling with figuring out how and why I survived, I'm more comfortable with leaning towards it having been thanks to a combination of factors, some of them related to me, others to external agents. Him deciding to save me for last did help, and so did Zach's unfortunate decision to try to buy me some time, regardless of how bitter of a pill it is to swallow, but where does that leave me, then?

          I know I wasn't a passive agent in that whole ordeal. Though I spent most of the time running, hiding, crying, and pleading, there was a point something clicked in my brain, something that triggered me to switch my approach, and that was the moment I knew I had nothing left to lose. If everyone in there died, there would be no one to tell the story, to tell the true story of what went down, to avenge others.

          The moment I realized I'd have to save myself, no longer being able to afford the luxury of waiting for the police to arrive and rescue me like a damsel in distress, I was enraged—hurt, but filled with adrenaline and determination just so I didn't have to feel scared. I've never been a quitter, and that wasn't how I was going to be defeated, so I reached out for the bat and did what I had to do to survive.

          I am no hero.

          Calling me a hero makes the whole situation sound a lot more fantastical and whimsical than it actually was, like it's something that can even be glorified. There was nothing heroic or badass about hiding in a storage closet, genuinely convinced I was going to die—to be killed by someone I considered a friend—and forcing myself to believe it was just a nightmare, a prank, that everyone would get up and start laughing at my horror. Very funny, guys.

          There was nothing badass about emerging from a cabin, soaked in blood that both was and wasn't mine, battered and bruised, concussed, dragging a baseball bat behind me. If He hadn't followed me outside, wielding the machete, and threatened everyone, everything could have easily been twisted to fit a narrative in which I was responsible for every death. If I had killed him with the bat, I would've stooped to his level, and things would be a lot different now.

          Except they aren't. Except I lucked out.

          It's with that newfound reflection that I force myself to attend the mental health events on campus in the first week of September, very much against Betty's wishes, something she insists on reminding me of during the drive to UAS.