Death of a Daredevil

A Dare Too Far

Shane's got a gun.

Shane's got a gun, and he's in my first period classroom, pointing it at people. It's a pistol -- like an army one. I know that gun because I've seen it at Shane's house before. He even showed it off before to Ace and me when we were younger, and he got in a complete shitload of trouble for that. His dad smacked him hard across the face when he came in the room and Shane went flying. The whole side of his face was red, and he was scared bad. It's the same gun.

Only now, Shane doesn't look scared at all. He looks scary. He's smiling weird, like maybe he's a little drunk or something. In the morning? But why do I wonder that, because there is absolutely nothing normal about what is going on now.

Mr. Potter the teacher is sitting totally still at his desk. All the kids are sitting really still, except for a couple that are crying bad and can't help shaking.

Shane's just going off. I can't really follow it. About 'you fuckers think you're so fucking good,' and, 'he didn't think I was worth a shit,' and, 'let her say that now, bitch, go ahead, bitch, say it now, bitch,' but I couldn't tell who he was talking to or about.

See, I came in late. I'm just inside the doorway behind Shane, and the senior who's pushing my chair is behind me. But then that kid bolts and Shane hears, and he turns around and sees me. This time, I know who he's talking to.

"There you are you fucking cripple fuck," he said, kind of crazy sounding. "Fucking cripple fuck, all fucked up." He looks at me mostly, but he also keeps checking on the rest of the class and waving his gun. "I saw you," he said. "I saw you fall. I saw you land on Matty. I saw his arm fucking shred and stab you. I heard you moan and choke. You kept coughing blood and choking, and your leg was all bent up like... like... like all fucking bent fucking up in pieces, you fucker! Moaning, crying fucker thought you'd die like Matty, and..."

Now he turned to face me completely, and pointed that gun at me completely, too. I heard kind of a hiss in the class.

"Why won't you talk to me?" he asked. "Why couldn't I have lunch with you or... anything? Why--"

"Take it easy Shane." A voice from the room -- not mine.

So then Shane whips around and fires the gun, but not like he fired it at anyone. It just went off while it was swinging around. It was so loud! Like Ricky had said about his brother. The whole room froze.

...Except then this kid Leah kind of sagged, and slid really slowly part out her desk, so that she ends up kind of hanging from it a little. She's breathing these big breaths, but you can't hear them. It's so weird. You can't hear them.

"Shane, please." It's Mr. Potter. "Please, son, stop." He said it so calm. Shane looked at him for about five seconds, then shot him. Hit his shoulder, I think, and Mr. Potter yelled and fell behind his desk.

"Where's Ricky?" Shane shouted. "Where's fucking Ricky?!" he screamed. And Ricky was there. It's the only class I had with him. He was there, and Shane spotted him. Ricky hadn't moved, but Shane spotted him. He aimed and fired quick, and it looked like the bullet went through the desk and hit Ricky somewhere near his dick. Ricky shrieked and bent over, and then Shane aimed slow at Ricky's head.

* * *

I'm a daredevil, see. That's what I am. I take chances. If I don't do that, then I'm not even me. I could feel it come on -- the thrill. Figuring the chances. Thinking about the rules, and there was only one -- save Ricky. That was it. That was the rule. Save Ricky, and I win the dare.

I heaved myself up from my wheelchair, putting weight on my right leg that hadn't been there for months, and I screamed at Shane at the same time, because there was no time. "Shane, you fucking dickface asshole!!" I don't know -- it's what I yelled. And I moved toward Shane as fast as I could, which was not fast.

He shot me.

I kept moving and grabbed his gun arm with my left hand.

He shot me again.

I grabbed that arm with all I had and fell on Shane, dragging him to the floor.

He shot me again.

I didn't let go, I didn't let go, I didn't let go, I didn't let go, I didn't let go...

* * *

It's 106 days later, now, and I'm about to die. Everybody else lived. Leah got paralyzed, so she's a wheelchair kid now. Mr. Potter was okay, I guess -- it was his shoulder that got hit. Ricky got shot in the abdomen and had to have surgeries on his bladder and intestines, but he's almost back to normal.

I know all this because people talk when they're in my room. They talk like I'm not even there. They have no idea that I'm listening and can hear everything they say. They think I'm a complete vegetable because I got shot in the head, but I'm not. Shane's first shot hit my right leg, his second hit my right shoulder (like Potter), and his last hit me in the right side of my head and trashed important parts of my brain. Apparently, I don't move at all, even though I try constantly to move -- even just a finger tip. I could see a little for awhile, but then they shut my eyes because I wasn't blinking and they didn't want them to dry out. I can hear fine.

And what I hear is that I can't breathe on my own, and they're feeding me through a tube, and their sucking wastes out of me with tubes, and they can't detect whatever it is they need to detect to decide that I'm still me -- still Ivor, still conscious. They can't detect it. And I can't move a fucking fingertip to prove it to them. If I could... If I could just take a little breath, or put my lips together, or open an eye, or anything, then they'd know. Then what's about to happen wouldn't happen.

Because today, they're going to unplug me. That's right. In about a minute, they're going to kill me. They talk about it right there -- right by my bed. My mom's there. I hear her voice, and she is fucking wrecked -- but she believes the doctors and their tests.

"He's not there," says the fucking moron, Doctor Finnegan.

'I fucking am too here!' I shout silently.

"...I know," my mom says. "I know. Okay. I'll just sit with him. I"ll..." She's crying. I know she sits next to me and takes my hand. I can tell.

Then I hear sounds I know so well -- nurses' steps.

Stop it!

Machines being adjusted.

Stop it!

And then, the ventilator stops. It stops. It's off. That's it.

...Oh no.

'Breathe,' I say to myself. The sound I've listened to for 106 days is done. It's silent. 'Breathe!' I think. 'Come on you fucker, breathe!!' I try with everything I am, everything I have left. I strain so hard. I say it to all of me. 'Breeeathe!!!' echoes through the ruins in my skull. I'm alive, and they're killing me. They're killing me.... 'Breathe,' I beg... 'Breathe' please...

Please...

...Please...

...

I think of Ricky.

The End