We're all Lying - ( A short story )

Untold Stories - After the Story

Ever since that day, I wasn't the same. It was like a wire had snapped and I became someone else. Memories don't just disappear, they come back and haunt the back of your mind at times when you least expect. Those times you lay awake in bed at ungodly hours of the morning, the world calm and asleep, with your mind racing with the thoughts of the past, unable to cope with the pain and stress caused by it.

Sometimes it was too much. Everyone needed a release at some point. Mine just happened to be different from theirs.

I chose to write my thoughts down, read them aloud, then proceed to rip them to shreds and burn them in a pit of my sorrows and pain. It worked for a while.

But having gone through what I had been through many years ago, the same thoughts and feelings returned, ignited stronger and deadlier than before. And it was all too much.

Six years previous to this, I was a student. A student who loved school and sucked up to the teachers. I used to walk the halls with my head held high and confidence in my walk, now I can't face looking anyone in the eyes. It was a different time back then. I was the person I'd rather be. The one before the incident.

All it took was 12 minutes, 48 seconds and three shots to change who I was forever.

An ordinary school day. An ordinary class. And ordinary students. But the ending wasn't ordinary.

It ended in tears. Mourning. Death.

It was the day my best friend died.

                                                                                         ––––––––

If you had told me he was going to be shot three times that day, I would've laughed right in your face. He was the golden child, the class clown, the A-grade student who everyone loved, but that day taught me that he had a past no one knew about, except one.

I walked into class that day with a smile laced on my face that no one could erase. My life was taking a turn for the better and, I couldn't be happier about it. The class started off as usual, with Mr Eichler marking the roll in his bored, moody state. 

Mitch came into class late as usual with a "Sorry sir won't happen again," for the fifth time that week. It was Wednesday. He waltzed in and took the seat next to me, whispering, 'What's been happening?'. I told him it was the boring shit that was being explained to us yesterday. He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. I wrote down notes, while Mitch, being as smart as he is, mentally wrote down whatever Mr Eichler was saying. I don't know how he did it. He was like one of those people with photographic memories. Pretty impressive but no doubt it would be annoying.

I had started to zone out, the murmurs of my classmates around me becoming nothing more than white noise. Mitch poked my arm before I could fall asleep, however. 

"What," I grumbled, my voice groggy. He pointed a finger towards the classroom door. 

"Have a look at the guy out there," I looked at the door. "Seems a bit sketchy hey?"

I nodded, watching the figure pace from the door to the wall, and back again. "What do you think he's doing?"

Mitch shrugged. "No idea dude."

We both let it slide, assuming the guy knew what he was doing. Turns out he knew exactly what he was doing.

It was 9:42. 12 minutes into the 50-minute lesson when the door opened. No one noticed at first, but the man in the doorway was holding something small, shiny and deadly. But everyone noticed when he walked straight up to Mitch, grabbed his throat and demanded $300 in cash.

"Where's my money?!" He screamed, shaking the boy in his grasp.

Mitch whimpered under his breath. "I don't have it." His voice was shaken and small.

Whatever Mitch had done was idiotic, stupid and was about to cost him more than just 300. The guy pulled the shiny object from his other hand and calmly placed it underneath Mitch's chin. The room stood still. I heard the silent sobs of classmates around me, Mitch's and his capture's breaths were ragged and raging. 

"I'm going to kill you."

My breath became restricted like someone was squeezing my throat to the point where I couldn't breathe. All I heard was the screams of children as three, singular, murderous shots echoed through the room. But I couldn't remember the aftermath.

A week after, there was a service. Mitch wasn't the only one shot. He wasn't the only one killed. Two students and Mr Eichler had suffered consequences after trying to stop Mitch's killer in his path. They brought him down but the gun fired again, hitting one of the students and wounding the other. It was a tragedy brought on by selfishness. 

It was all because of drugs.