The school seems empty. Quiet, still and empty. You skip down the steps, books in one hand, iPod clenched in the other, an earphone swinging. You turn the dial on your locker, glad that no one is under you, pushing you out of the way.
You push the books in, sort what to take home, shove your graphics calculator and English folder in. You grab your bag and swing it over a shoulder and slam the locker shut.
Damn it.
Left your phone in there. Open, grab, shut. Lock.
You need to pee, so you step into the bathroom and let your bag fall onto the floor. When you are done, you come out, wash you hands, and the soap spills everywhere.
Damn it.
Wipe it to your elbows, wash it off. Press on the hand-dryer, then wipe the water off your hands onto your dress. Easier that way. You fringe is falling over your eyes, so you brush it away with a half wet finger. You walk outside, and the sun hits everything. Blinded by the perfect white light, you turn right and continue onwards to the other side of the building. Perhaps some friends will be there, at their lockers.
There are juniors standing around over there, the girls in creased white dresses and the boys in white shirts and gray pants. The girls are talking, gossiping in their way. The boys do nothing, just stand. You know a couple, but don't acknowledge them. Instead you steer towards a friend who stands alone, his arms folded, in the shade.
Damn it.
Someone. He comes down the steps. Stops you. Stops you all. Except those junior girls. One of them giggles. In on a joke.
He has a gun. A big a gun. Black. It should be shiny, but the sun is too happy to glint across that death machine. Or perhaps it has hidden.
Damn it.
He points it at you. Swings it around across his wrist and points it at you.
Damn it.
Holds it, shoots it. A jerk across the trigger. Not meaning to. That doesn't matter.
Damn it.
He, the gunman, is gone. Not important. The girls giggle, still. The boys are silent and official. Un-moving, un-moved. Without turning your head, still falling, shocked, hurt, bleeding, you know. Around the corner, the one you walked around, comes he. Him. Blond, broad shouldered. Sweet, caring. Agony etched into his face.
Runs up behind you. Your dress is still pulsing from the shot, bending around your ribs and a romantic flutter. Blood stained into the tartan material. He catches you, under the armpits, pulls you up. He doesn't let you touch the ground. Bends his head to your ear.
"I love you."
"I always have."
"I always will."
Then softer, barely making it above the pain: "I love you." Your head sinks against his chest. Dead.
Damn it.