We're all Lying - ( A short story )

The start and The end

It was daunting.

Sitting in a strange, unknown room, rushes of people walking by as I sat, staring at a lady reading her notes.

She was old. Grey hair, glasses and a floral dress adorned her elderly, thin body. I observed her to calm the nerves that were creeping in. She had this calming vibe with the way she acted, writing slowly, neatly and so precise, that I felt the need to watch her small hand movements intensely.

Without warning, she rose her frail hand and pointed a shaky finger at me.

"You. You're the new teacher, aren't you?"

I gulped, the jitters moving into my hands.

"Yes," I answered.

Her once stale expression turned warm as she greeted me with a smile. "Nice to meet you! I'm Mrs Carnill."

"I'm James," I returned her introduction.

She got up from where she was sitting, grabbed a few files that were placed neatly on her pristine desk and made her way over to me. "Come with me. I'll show you to your first class."

As we walked through the halls, I had already started to piece together the social groups and a hierarchy between the students. There were the jocks, the cheerleaders, the rich kids, the nerds, the outcasts and everyone in between. But before I could analyse anymore, we had arrived at my new classroom.

Block C, Class 161.

"Here you are. I'll leave you to settle in," Mrs Carnill said before promptly opening the classroom door for me. "Good luck!" She exclaimed before walking off. I whisper a silent 'Thank you,' before taking a deep breath and walking in.

The room wasn't anything to be desired, but it was nice. Just something simple. A musty odour lingered in the air, while light danced around the room, reflecting off the grey walls. The last school I taught at wasn't anything like this, it was a rundown, aged, low-end type of school. This school was a typical American High School.

Just as I had finished unpacking and writing my name on the board, the bell rang. And within the minute after it rang, students piled in, taking what seemed like specific seats. I nodded at a few students who had acknowledged my presence and then faced my attention to the rest of the class.

"Um, hi everyone. I'm Mr Stanford. This is my first day teaching here and, uh, I guess we'll see how this goes."

A few whispers bounced around the room as students took in my whole appearance, some looked as though they were sizing me up as competition. I felt intimidated by a few of the bulkier jocks, but other than that, the class seemed reasonable to teach.

I reluctantly marked the roll, trying to remember as many names and faces as I could before getting into the first topic of the semester. War. As a history teacher, this was by far my favourite topic to teach. Every student had a differing opinion and voice when it came to a certain war and it was great to hear it.

"Can anyone name a war that they've heard or learnt about other than World War I or II?" I asked the class, scanning their ever so bored faces. One girl I recognised as Lacy piped up,"I've heard about the American Civil and the Cold war." I sent a courteous nod her way and asked her to further explain what she knew. But just before she could answer my next question, an alarm sounded through the room.

A shiver ran through my spine. Not again, I thought as flashbacks returned that I thought I'd left behind.

The speakers above my head started blaring the phrase, This is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill.

I looked at the kids who were all frightened at what was about to occur. Making the first move, I quickly shut all the curtains and locked the door, a few students helping.

"Everyone just stay calm and get as close as you can to the cupboards or under a window," I instructed them. "Just stay out of sight."

One of the girls started whimpering, the onset of tears not far. She was one of the self proclaimed 'tough' girls I'd gathered previously. Not so tough anymore I guess. But I could say the same for how I was feeling at this moment too.

"I'm gonna die. I'm going to die. I am going to die."

I looked over to where the voice repeating those words was. He acted so timid, like a naive gazelle awaiting its death, but he looked much like the opposite. His frame tall, muscular and broad. You wouldn't depict guys like that as scared.

Out of nowhere a ear shattering scream came from the front of the class. The doorknob was rattling prefusiously and at that moment, time stood almost still. It felt like days watching the door burst open and a man dressed in all black appeared, his gun aimed and ready. I tried to scream. I tried to tell him to stop. I tried to save him. But it was too late. The gunman fired a single bullet that rippled through the air and straight through warm flesh on the other side of the room. I couldn't breathe. The air became thick and my vision distorted. A cloud of black swarmed my brain as I fell fast into the oblivion.

When I regained consciousness, I was crowded, being shaken, screamed at, cried over. It was all too much. For everyone.

"Call 911." Was all I said. "Tell them someone's been shot."

I crawled through the thick swarm of warm bodies to the one that was lying cold. The once timid, gazelle like boy was now laying still, untouched by life anymore.

This burley, handsome jock, had predicted he was going to die. And that was when people started changing.

"I should have told him how much he meant to me," one of the girls with a popular status mourned. "All I did was push him away..."

Her expression became stale as another girl laid a hand on her shoulder. Before I could comprehend what was about to happen, a crunch echoed through the room.

"This is all your fault!" The first girl spat in pure anger. Her hand red from the blood of the other girl, "If you hadn't blackmailed me out of jealousy, he would've known I loved him!"

The second girl clenched her nose, trying to prevent the bleeding. Her eyes held red. "He wouldn't have wanted to be with you once he found out how much of a whore you are."

Then the tension between the two girls stood still. Everyone became silent. No one knew what to do. Secrets were coming out left, right and centre and by the look on some of the students faces, they had some stuff to hide too.

"We have to accept that Jay is dead. He's not coming back." A voice stated. It was the boy I had saw alone in the corner of the classroom. The loner. The social outcast. And he was right. We couldn't change what had happened, but we could change what would happen in the future. So for the next half an hour until the police stormed the building, everyone confessed. They confessed their darkest secrets. From lying about wealth and status, to secretly having a child no one knew about. They told me about their families abuse and abuse of substances. Everyone had a secret. And everyone was lying. They weren't who they said they said they were.

As I was led to the ambulance by a police officer, I looked back at the body being taken out in a white bag and remembered what I was told in that room.

He bullied the shooter to the point where he thought the only way it would stop, was to kill him.

And just how it had started, I sat in the that same strange and daunting office, with the same old lady with the grey hair, dressed in floral, reading through her notes on her pristine desk the week following the shooting and signed my resignation forms. I was not putting myself through this again. I just couldn't.

So I left.