Empathy

Prologue

During

Something wasn't right. I knew this immediately. I have an unexplainable intuition about such things, and I knew something was going on. But I didn't know soon enough.

I walked into school, acting casual, but keeping my guard up as I walked down the hall. The queer feeling was pulsing in my stomach, getting worse and worse as I neared my locker. I was greeted as usual, by Ashley Brine, my best friend, who picked up on my mood as soon as I said hello.

"What is it?" she asked, twirling a strand of her red-blonde hair around her finger, eyebrows arched in concern.

"My spidey-sense is tingling," I replied with a small smile, but my brows remained furrowed with worry.

"Relax. It's probably nothing major," she said with a reassuring smile. Out of nowhere she grabbed my arm, almost making me drop my books. "Now come on! We're gonna be late for Biology!" I matched her pace as she dragged me along through the hallway, still not completely assured that everything was okay. For a moment everything was normal, normal crowded hallway, normal Ashley, pushing through the throng of people, pulling me along with her. But when I saw it, that normal moment ended.

Its owner was Quinton Blake, a tall, muscular senior with curly black hair and two permanently angry eyebrows above pure black eyes. Just looking at him sent shivers up my spine. His mouth was drawn and unsmiling, and when he looked at me, I saw the unfathomable pain hidden in those dark coal eyes.

I happened to glance at his hands, shoved deep into his pockets, and suddenly I made out a bulky object concealed there. For a moment, time seemed to freeze, stunning me, stopping me. Ashley looked back at me, confused, trying to tug me forward, but I couldn't be moved. People pushed past me, some people I knew and loved, some who were unfamiliar to me. But I had to warn them all.

"LOOK OUT! HE HAS A-!" I started to scream, but not soon enough, because by then the gun was out of his pocket and he was pulling the trigger.

BAM! A single shot, and screams of terror as others realized what was happening. I was pushed to my knees by the crowd of screaming classmates, everyone panicking, hiding. Ashley's hand was ripped from mine as hundreds of people pushed us apart. Kids tried to jump out of windows, straight through the glass, and I heard the shattering as they broke; the screams of pain as people piled on the grassy ground below. But I didn't run to the window. As Quinton continued to shoot I ran to warn Ashley, who would be clueless, who would have no idea what was going on. I shoved my way through the hall, knocking anyone in my path aside, not out of spite, but out of fear. Fear that I wouldn't get there in time, fear that Ashley would die. Fear that I would die.

But that gun had a target, for crumpled lifeless on the floor was my best friend in the world.

In that moment, that heartbreaking, world-shattering moment, I couldn't comprehend what had happened. Any minute now she would jump up and start laughing, though she should have known this was no time to joke.

"Ash!" I knelt down by her still body and shook her.

"Ash, get up! This isn't funny!" I shrieked, rolling her on to her back. And then, for the first time, I saw the blossoming dark red stain on the chest of her favorite white Abercrombie and Fitch sweater; saw the blood speckling her gingery hair. My heart stopped. I forgot how to breathe.

People were swarming around me, screaming and running for any means of safety. I sat there, silent. My brain was numb, the signals it was trying to send, to get me to run, were scrambling, evaporating. Ash's death glued me to the floor.

"ASHLEY!!!" I finally screamed, "No, please, no!"

The howl of anguish made heads turn in my direction. Others joined me, tried to pry me from her body, but I kept my hold on her and shoved them aside. They were telling me to run, but I did not obey. Instead, I slung her over my shoulder and dragged myself into a supply closet.

There was lots of noise. Stampedes of fleeing feet, the occasional BANG! Were they warning shots, I wondered, or more deaths?

Hours passed. I buried my face in Ashley's bloody sweater, sobbing from grief, and eventually, fear. What if I died? What if he found me? My heart pounded like a jackhammer. Gasps of shallow breath hissed through my clattering teeth. The shots had stopped, dead silence settled in, like a snake before it struck. I didn't move a muscle, scared that even a twitch of my finger would give me away.

Footsteps broke the quiet; loud, clamoring footsteps. I heard doors being kicked open, with loud smashes as they fell. I squeezed my eyes shut and shoved my fist in my mouth, certain that if I didn't, I'd scream.

Suddenly, the door flew open, digging deep into my knees, and he was there. Quinton- the murderer- was feet away from me, gun in hand. I knew I should just keep my mouth shut, for any word that I uttered could set him off, and that would be the end of me. But I couldn't help myself. "Please!!!" I screamed, "Please!!! Don't hurt me, please!!!" I sobbed in terror, drawing in what surely must have been my last, ragged breaths.

But he wasn't pointing it at me. His gun arm was limp at his side, and his eyes were wide with—was I imagining it?—fear?

I threw myself over Ashley, more concerned with saving her body than with my own safety. I braced myself for the shattering pain.

"Drop the gun!" an unfamiliar voice yelled. Uniformed police swarmed into the tiny closet, crowding the deserted halls. The gun clattered to the floor. For some strange reason, I screamed.

"Let the girl go. Hands where I can see them," the same voice commanded. He obeyed.

The officer cuffed Quinton and led him roughly down the hall. Another cop came over to check on me.

"I'm Officer Patrick Daryl. You okay?"

As if in answer to his question, I turned away from him and puked. Anger, grief, sadness, and ultimately fear flooded through me, as well as countless other emotions.

"Come with me. An ambulance is on the way."

I latched myself on to Ashley's body protectively, telling him without speaking that I wasn't leaving.

"Don't worry. She'll be taken care of," he said, scooping me up in his arms, "There's nothing you can do for her now."

I weakly attempted to shove myself away from him, but failed. The last thought that penetrated my battered, traumatized mind was, Was this all real? And, if it was, what will happen now?

And then the world went black.