Chapter 7: Falling From Fame
My school held an assembly today congratulating the “heroes” inspire of our disaster. Local TV stations lined the auditorium walls and taped the whole speech. They thanked others and me. I cried a few tears, but there was silence - the two victims of the disaster – the boy and another girl. There were tissue boxes floating around the room. I had to use a few. I have had nightmares about Luke – his dead body in my hands. Him slipping to the floor. I could have tried to save him. But I didn’t.
I was responsible for his death.
Teachers could barely look at the slides shown of the disaster. My friends beside me used me as a pillow to comfort them. I let them. It was fine. I didn’t have to speak in front of everyone. Thank God. But I was silence. Despite my daydreams of Luke. He grasped at my mind. I can’t get him off my mind. I can’t undo anything. I am horrible. I’m no hero. Just a traitor.
I was looked at by many in the halls after the assembly. They hugged me and gave me looks of a hero. But that was no comfort. I just went on to my classes. I couldn’t focus. Like I needed to. Most of the teachers just put on educational videos relating to topics we are covering. But I never paid attention – there was too much at mind. No one can get me on knowing what a dead person looks like. Feels like. No one knows how anything works with dead people. Except for one – the Orchestra teacher.
He didn’t know me. I just borrow his empty classroom for Math class. He’s funny, smart, and random. But he has experience in the field of serving the United States in battle. He would know what it feels like.
“Mr. Harding,” I say, walking in. “I need help.” He turns with a donut in hand. “With what?” he says, sort of puzzled, with his mouth full. “It’s very serious. And you are the only person I know who would know what this feels like.”
So I go on to talk about the horrors of the cafeteria, and finding the Art room, and everything else. He nearly cries and pulls me into a lot of hugs. He is like a dad. He provides me comfort and support. He shares some of his experience. He reminds me of a retired teacher’s story about someone dying in his arms. I decide enough is enough with the comfort and leave. I wish him a good day.
But not is well just a few minutes away – I never knew that the five sinners were plotting again – this time, for someone they know will get them sinners.
History again comes and I slowly go to his class. My history teacher welcomes me in but I am stopped by someone sitting at my desk – the counselor.
“Hey, Gav.” She says warmly. I greet her. “So, Mr. Harding told me about some stuff. We should have a chat.” “Is he okay with that?” I ask, pointing to my history teacher. “He is. Lets go.”
So she walks me into her office and we discuss my feelings. I am so sad that I explode in tears and can’t calm down. It takes the principal and the vice principal to calm me. But tears still burn my cheeks and I can’t stop looking into the hall that leads to the cafeteria. “Gavin, it’s okay.” My vice principal says. She is actually really nice, but really funny at times (as is the case with Bryce). I almost make her cry with the horrifying thoughts provoked by my experiences. My parents are eventually called and I make both of them cry – by the end of the school day I have cried more tears that could make another Great Lake. I go home and just go to bed. I don’t want to go back to school. I never want to leave my bed.
But Ammut is calling. My legacy waits. And it will begin in less than 24 hours. Oh, the joy.
