My guns became real

Short Story

I remember playing cops and robbers as a kid. We would run around the yard, chasing each other with sticks made to be guns. Arguments would break out on whether the cop tagged the robber running from the bank. Red marks would glow from our wrists, showing where our rope handcuffs would sit. Bases were announced at the beginning of the round. Straws were pulled assigning roles to each kid who had wandered into the playground. Mouths imitating gun noises echoed through the yard. Sticks bobbed up and down in innocent children's hands, following the sounds bouncing back and forth between kids. I never thought that one day, those guns would become real.

Silence crawled through the hallways, suffocating any noise that was left in the building. Darkness filled my eyes, making it hard to pull out certain images from in front of me. Everything seemed to freeze. We've been through these drills before. Turn off the lights. Lock the doors. Hide in the corner of the room, furthest from the entryways in the classroom. These procedures were burned into our brain since the beginning of school. Whether we would ever have to use them was always the real question.

Anytime the news of another attack hit our phones, it would be discussed in lunch lines, in history classes, at dinner tables. It was just another example of how important these steps were. Comments like "it's always the quiet kids", "you never see it coming", and "I don't understand why" run through the air creating suspicions about the classmates you sit next to. Would they be the next one? Do they fit the criteria? Would your school be next? But, you never ask yourself, "am I the next victim?" Not until the only noise you can hear is labored breath and muffled cries.

Phones start shining, thumbs move quickly sending goodbyes full of love to people on the other side of the nightmare. Notifications buzz in trembling hands trying to understand the urgency of the messages. With every text that is sent, faint sounds of sirens appear, bringing sighs of relief with them.  Yet, the hope doesn't seem to raise anyone's spirits. The thought of not being able to see the sunlight, drowns out any positivity left in the small classroom; leaving only the thought of this being the last room we ever see in everyone's heads.

That's the one thing they don't teach you in the drills: how to keep your head quiet.

Anxiety used to be sitting at your desk with an empty test in front of you. Your foot started bouncing as you flipped through the questions, not knowing where to start, watching the clock, surveying how much time you had left. You'd pick up your pencil to attempt the first problem, but all you could get your hand to do was shake the pencil until it flew out of your hand and across the classroom. This anxiety was different. This anxiety was forced. This anxiety, for all we knew, was timeless. Looking up at the clock didn't provide relief; it only created more tension.

"Attention all students and faculty," an announcement blared through the speaker systems, "Due to safety protocol, we are going into a lockdown drill. Teachers, please follow the instructions in your emergency folder. Thank you." All the kids look around the classroom, trying to read the differing emotions on their classmates' faces. Most kids knew exactly what they were supposed to do next; but, others stood with absolute fear filling their eyes.

"Alright kids," Mrs. Hall says with the red folder in her hand. "We've been through this before. To the corner now." She guided the straggling kids to the corner with protective hands, knowing that this was any kid's nightmare, drill or reality. After we were all huddled by the hanging backpacks and fairytale-filled bookshelf, Mrs. Hall locked the door and shut out the lights.

We all knew this was just a drill, but to our little minds, it was a life or death situation. The only difference between then and now: we knew how it would end.

Hours have passed by, our eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness. No noise has broken the vow of silence the halls have taken. The sirens had stopped outside, leaving us to wonder if they were still here to rescue us from inside what every student feared. Students embrace each other in hopes to find the security that they'd been stripped of. Phones were shared for sons and daughters to update their mothers and fathers, promising them that they were still okay, not knowing how much longer they could assure them for.

We're juniors now. We know how these things end. Someone always gets hurt. Everyone is affected by the actions of one person. Being locked in your school, not knowing if you're going home is terrifying. Not knowing where your freshmen sister is, or if she's okay, or if she's made it out drives your brain to tie itself in knots. My best friend hasn't answered her phone, leaving my mind to wander if she's hurt, or worse. No one has to say it, but everyone's minds are running the same scenarios through their heads over and over until we've convinced ourselves they're real.

Four shots leave their echo in the air, and everyone freezes. Two minutes later another three go off, sounding closer than the first. No other sound resides in the building. No screams, no knocks, no voices. Just the sound we were all afraid of. You would think our first instinct would be contacting someone outside and telling them of the things we just heard. But, no one has the courage to move. The bullets make this real. The bullets were our assurance this wasn't just a sick drill administered by the faculty. And the one thing running through all of our heads, the bullets meant someone was hurt.

After an hour of silence, with our minds being the only noise, another three shots are fired. I've covered my ears, not wanting to hear them anymore, not wanting to accept the fact that I am inside what every student fears. I tried staying strong. My mom always said that you never know how strong you are until being strong is your only option.  All I could think about was if those bullets hit anyone; and if they did, was it someone I know?

"I tagged you! You're out!" Screams bounced back and forth between children as the sun started to set.

"No I'm not! You touched my hair, you have to touch me in order to get me out; it's the rules," I yelled at the boy in front of me. A crowd started to gather around us as we bickered on who was right.

"I shot you with my gun. A bullet goes through hair. You're out!" He shouted, slashing his stick gun in the air.

"It's not even a real gun. Those aren't the rules," I muttered under my breath as I walked away.

"It could be a real gun! My dad has one!" He argued back. His comment sent a shock of silence through the playground.

Hours had gone by and we still sat in the dark. My thoughts had taken over, taking me through the millions of different scenarios in which this could finally end. As we all huddled in the corner, more shots were fired; but these ones were closer. Another round seconds later, getting closer to my ears. My heart started to race. We all sat up straight and pushed ourselves further into the dark abyss the shadows of the bookshelf created. As more shots were fired, my head started spinning. I felt my lungs beginning to hyperventilate. A rush of adrenaline zoomed through my body, making me feel like I was on fire. The gun sent off it's siren again, but this time, plaster blew from the wall. He found us.

The kids around me started to scream. My teacher moved in front of our group to protect us from the danger she knew was going to strike. I stopped breathing, the suspense of not knowing what would happen next was driving us all to hell. I felt a trickle of wetness run down my side. I looked down to see the one thing I hadn't prepared myself for. One of the stray bullets had made itself comfortable in my side.

I grasped my wound not knowing what else to do. My teacher made her way to me after the minutes of silence following the last round of shots fired. She was talking to me, I could see her mouth moving, but her words were inaudible. The only sound in my ears was the ringing that followed the trigger being pulled. I felt the warmth of palms covering my trembling body, providing some comfort to the horrible situation the classroom was now in.  My vision started to blur, faces began to blend in with the darkness of the room. After some time, that darkness swallowed me whole.

When my eyes opened, I was back at the playground; kids running in every direction. Laughter and screaming filled the yard. Toy guns bounced up and down in little children's arms, their mouths imitating the sounds of bullets leaving the makeshift weapon. These kids didn't get it, and at one point neither did I. But now? My story is being shared with the school body, I'm the example. My life was taken from me and this playground is where it started. People are going to ask themselves the same questions I once did; wondering why these things happened, where the ideas came from. Yet, these kids still play outside pretending to shoot one another. The only difference? My guns became real.