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While I’m not a licensed teacher, they needed someone to fill in, and it turns out that I fit the bill. Since this is an art class, it hasn’t been too hard to do, and I really enjoy it.
Today, I have them practicing their clean line skills. Using rulers and lined paper, everyone does their best to keep their hands steady. It’s all for fun, a break from the academics, and they do wonderfully under my praise.
The rest of the day passes quietly, uneventfully. I teach two more classes, and as I’m about to dismiss my last one of the day, that’s when I hear it.
The sound I wish I didn’t instinctually know. The sound that changed my life.
A gunshot.
Followed by another.
And another.
Until finally, the screams reach my ears.
I freeze, unable to move or think, until a tiny hand tugs at my shirt sleeve, and I’m brought back to earth. “Miss Taylor?” One of the ten-year-old boys pulls so hard, my shoulder pops out of the neck opening.
“To the back of the class,” I instruct, aiming to keep the panic from my voice. The room with the kiln is the only place I can think to put them. “Hide behind whatever you can.” I don’t know how often events like this happen here, but due to my training at home, I sadly know what to do. “Keep quiet,” I tell them, closing the door so there’s just a crack open.
Running to the classroom door, I realize what I do next is risky, but I open the door to check if any students are lingering in the hallway. Four older kids are trying to hide in alcoves, behind water fountains, and in lockers.
Whistling, they all turn to look at me. “Quickly!” I hiss. Ushering them into the room, I tell them where to go and to keep quiet. Closing and locking the door, I shut the blinds around us just as I notice a large caravan of police arrive outside. What surprises me is the lone man shouting at the officials as they stand around.
Waving my arms to gain their attention, he sees me, his eyes narrowing and flashing with something. The tattoos on his face and neck make him appear terrifying. He motions for me to get down, and just as that blind closes, the classroom door kicks in, and in the doorway are two boys armed with automatic rifles. One smirks as he enters the classroom, the other raises his gun, aiming right at me, and all I can think is, why me? Why now?How is this fair in any way?
Before either of them can do anything, another boy appears. This one, I recognize. He’s about sixteen, and I’ve seen him around school a few times. I believe he has siblings here.
“You lied!” he shouts at the shooters, shocking me. I can’t even begin to understand what’s happening, so when he reaches for one of the young men, I watch in horror as he brings a knife up to his neck, and in one clean sweep, blood spurts everywhere.
Screaming, I drop to the ground, and a shot goes off, hitting the window behind me. Shattering glass rains down, some pelting my back as I cover my head.
Shouting from outside can be heard, but I don’t move until I feel a hand grab a chunk of my hair. Dragging me to my feet, the boy wraps an arm around my neck as he backs into the wall encasing the kiln room.
The two shooters are dead, blood pooling around them as their necks gape open; the knife used lays on the ground near their bodies. I become lightheaded as his arm tightens around my neck.
“Please don’t kill me,” I beg. He mutters something, but my ears are ringing, so I don’t hear him. “Please, let the kids go.”
“Kids?” he snarls, and I feel his head whipping around, looking for them. “What kids?”
“Will you let them go?” I won’t tell him where they are until I know they’re safe.
“Yes, yes, this wasn’t my plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He sounds distressed, but I can’t let myself feel sorry for him. “Where are they?” he snaps.
Lifting a shaking hand, I point to the door nearby. “Just let them out. They’ve done nothing wrong.”
Dragging me over, I can barely get my feet under me. “Open it,” he demands. I twist the knob and register little whimpers of fear. “Everyone out!” he yells, and they all come shuffling out of the room, tears streaking their innocent faces.
“Go, run!” I encourage them. As they rush out the door, I remember the broken window and scream towards the police, “Children are coming out!”
The teen’s arm tightens on my throat as he drags me to the front of the classroom, watching the children leave before I notice a large shadow along the wall.Someone is coming.I can only hope that whomever it is can stop this boy before he kills me too.
* * *
Cage
A line of groaning bodies lies behind me as I make my way inside the school. I run into children and teachers as I carefully make my way to the classroom with the woman and her unruly wild red hair. I saw her through the window; she looked terrified.
It wasn’t just a fear of an active shooter, it was a fear born out of experience. When our eyes locked, a shift occurred inside me. The coldness I’ve lived with had a flash of warmth. A warmth I want to feel again. Like an addiction, I need to know it intimately.
