intense jenna ortega imagines for my girlies

two helping hands

TW: MENTION OF SCHOOL SH**TING ETC.

It's hard to believe that a year has passed since the day someone brought terror to our school. I can still vividly remember the sheer terror that cursed through me, upon hearing the first round of shots. I can still see myself crouched under a desk in the classroom, holding my breath and pretending to be lifeless. And I'll never forget the searing pain when someone shot me in the back.
The reason I'm even thinking back to that terrible day is because today marks the one-year memorial at our school. The hallways are filled with pictures, drawings and flowers, honoring the victims and speeches are being given in the gymnasium. At first I didn't even want to go to school today. I wanted to avoid all the pain I've been carrying since that day. But something inside of me told me I should go—for the victims. It felt almost disrespectful not to, as if staying away would somehow diminish their memory.

I'm sitting here with the rest of the school on the bleachers in the gym, waiting for the speeches to begin.  My hands are cold and sweaty, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt in order to calm my nerves. After some minutes, the principal steps in front of the microphone and begins his speech. I try to listen to his words, his apologies to the families, his words of encouragement, but I find myself dazing off from time to time. The memories still linger clear and heavy, as if it all just happened yesterday. The principal concludes his speech and now invites the families of the victims to step forward and share their words. First, a mother rises, her face streaked with tears as she moves towards the front. Her grief hangs heavy in the air, a palpable weight pressing down on everyone.

Without realizing it, I find myself clinging to the edge of the bench, my fingers digging into the wood. A powerful urge wells up inside me—a desperate need to escape, to flee from the suffocating sorrow filling the room. My heart pounds wildly in my chest and without thinking any further, I carefully weave my way through the crowd of students toward the exit. The mother's sobs still echo in the background and I have to resist the urge to cover my ears. Finally, I step out of the gym and into the quiet hallway, my footsteps echoing as I make my way to the nearest restroom. I push open the heavy door, my breath shallow and uneven. At the sink, I splash cold water onto my face, trying to steady myself. My hands gripping the edge of the sink for support as I lean over and catch my own reflection in the mirror.

Suddenly, the creak of a stall door breaks the silence. In the mirror, I see a girl step out—a figure with long, dark brown hair and baggy clothes. Vada. Her eyes meet mine through the glass and she clears her throat softly. „Couldn't take it either?" she asks, her voice quiet but understanding, her gaze filled with a shared sense of understanding. I only knew Vada from seeing her in the hallways or occasionally stealing glances at each other in the cafeteria, but we'd never spoken before. I break eye contact, my gaze dropping to my hands as I let out a soft sigh and shake my head. „No, not really", I say quietly, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. „It all still feels so fresh." As I turn to face her, my voice trails off, the words lingering in the air between us. She nods in silent agreement. „Yeah same, I can't believe already a year has passed since then."

But our conversation is suddenly interrupted by a faint, almost imperceptible sound of someone quietly crying. Instinctively, our heads snap up at the same time and our confused gazes meet. Vada gestures towards one of the stalls, signaling that someone must be inside. Without exchanging a word, we both move cautiously closer to the sound. Hesitant, I raise my voice just enough to be heard. „Hey, are you okay? Do you want to talk?" Vada stands beside me in front of the stall door and I catch a faint trace of her perfume. Instead of a response, we hear the soft click of the lock, followed by the creak of the door slowly opening. Curled up on the toilet seat is a girl from the grade below us, her face buried in her hands. Her small frame seems to shrink even further as if trying to disappear entirely.