Three Shots

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young girl recounts the death of her twin brother several years after a school shooting.

Submitted: May 06, 2016

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Submitted: May 06, 2016

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I remember there being three shots. Not one, not ten, thirty, or a hundred. Just three. But they were three shots that changed my life forever.

Shot one:

It was a normal day.

My mother had seen me and my brother Andrew off to school.

We got on the bus, arrived at the school, ate breakfast in the cafeteria, and then went to our separate 4th grade classrooms.

Us being twins, there wasn’t much we didn’t do together. But with Andrew being the smarter of the two, he went to his gifted 4th grade classroom. It wasn’t too bad though because it was right across the hallway from my classroom.

As usual, Ms. Jackson greeted my brother at the door, and spoke to me. We had a good relationship with Ms. Jackson seeing that she was our mother’s best friend. I spoke back to her with a smile, waved at my brother, and walked into my classroom.

My teacher was Ms. Baker. She was a nice lady, just kind of awkward. I sat down in my desk next to my best friend Macy and took out my paper and pencil for our bellringer.

“Alright class, I want you to correct these sentences on the board. It’s just a continuation of what we learned yesterday. After that we will be moving on to parts of speech.”

Ms. Baker looked around the room. She cleared her throat, gave a small smile, and lowered herself down into her desk.

“You didn’t tell your brother what I told you yesterday did you?” asked Macy in a hushed anxious voice.

I smiled.

“What? You mean that thing with you being in love with him?” I sang while laughing.  

She hit my arm.

“I’m serious Drea. Pleeaseee tell me that you didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t. He may be my twin, but you’re my bestfriend. Im not going to tell him something like that. I do have to say I told you so though.” I stuck my tongue out and went back to working on the bellringer.

“Oh my God.” said Ms. Baker.

The whole class looked up at her. She was staring into the computer screen with a look of horror on her face.

“Oh my God.” she said again standing up and going toward the door. She peeked through the glass and locked the door. Then she rushed back to her desk and started pacing back and forth.

“Umm class, why don’t we do silent reading?”

She started fidgeting with her hands.

“Ms. Baker, are you alright?” asked my friend Daniel.  

Ms. Baker looked like she was about to cry. She opened her mouth to answer and that’s when we heard it. 

It was silence…like the calm before a storm.

And then, the whole class screamed.

We started jumping under our desks and holding on to each other. Ms. Baker was crouched on the floor holding her head in her hands.

It was a gunshot.

“Andrea, did you hear me?”

I came from out of my daze.

“What?”

“I asked you how you found out Ms. Jackson was the first one shot. How did you know that she was first?”

I looked at my therapist.

For a long time I didn’t say anything.

Then, looking out the window, I cleared my throat and said, “Because my brother was the second.”

 

Shot two:

At this point Ms. Baker was crying. Over her muffled cries we heard another gunshot.

I started screaming in pain.

Macy held me and asked over and over again “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my chest.” I finally said.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Tears brimmed my eyes as I tried to hold them back.

“I don’t know” I said shaking my head. “I think…I think it’s my brother.”

I had only felt pain like that before twice in my life. Both times were when my brother was having an asthma attack.

As twins, it wasn’t unusual for us to feel things that the other experienced. But this pain…this pain was different than a normal asthma attack and I knew it.

Then, as quick as it came, it was gone.

This is when tears fell from my eyes.

“So, you’re telling me you felt your brother being shot?”

I nodded my head.

“Where exactly was he shot?”

I looked her straight into her face and answered.

“His chest.”

She looked away, I didn’t.

We sat in silence for a while.

My therapist looked at her notes, then up to me. She cleared her throat.

“It says here that you actually saw the killer before the incident.”

I gave her a small head nod.

I had seen him lots of times. He was one of our neighbors.

“I also noted that he shot himself in the head, after shooting Ms. Jackson and your brother but it says that he survived?”

“He did” I said.

“But he’s dead now. He died a few months ago. The shooting happened 6 years ago. What happened?” she asked in a confused voice.

I turned away from her and looked out the window.

I could see the trees moving. I focused on the leaves. I watched one fall to the ground and then blow away.

I turned back to my therapist and looked her into her eyes again.

“He hung himself.” I said bluntly.

 

Shot three:

 We heard the third shot rang out and then sat in complete silence for what felt like an eternity.

After what I later found out was five minutes, the police came busting into the door. They had us all evacute and then checked us to see if we were all alright.

“Where’s my brother?? Where’s Andrew?” I kept screaming to anyone who was around or would listen.

“I don’t know, I don’t know” said all the voices around me.

It wasn’t until two hours later that I found out he was dead.

Everyone and everything around me became a blur. I remember just screaming, pulling at my hair, and crying. I was a nervous wreck, but I didn’t care.

Nothing else mattered anymore. My twin, my bestfriend, no, my other half, was gone.

It took  more than a few years for me to check back into life.

My mother and I had become shells of our former selves.

Those first months after the incident, we didn’t dare turn on the T.V. All it showed over and over again was the news of what had happened. What three people had been shot and also which of the three had survived.

Him…Davy Stanford

He was Twenty-four years old, Caucasian, 6’2, and lived right down the street from my house.

He had never messed with anybody, seemed like a happy-go-lucky person, spoke to us all the time….and he had killed my brother.

Apperently, in distress, he had shot himself in the head to end his life.

It didn’t work.

For the next six years his face haunted my dreams.

And then, out of nowhere, I decided I wanted to see the bastard.

On the whole trip there I plotted what I would say and do. How I would spit in his face and tell him to rot in hell.

When I got there to that glass window I just stared.

He looked skinnier than before and way older. His head was shaved and you could still see the scar from the bullet wound. His back was turned to me.

We stayed like that for what seemed like a small eternity. Then finally I placed my hand on the glass.

It felt cold, freezing, so much so that it seemed to be burning my skin and I felt I couldn’t take it so I started beating in the glass.

My mother came into the room, grabbed me, and started wiping at my face. At first I was confused and tried to tell her to stop but then I realized I was crying. I buried my face into her shoulder and started screaming.

When I felt all cried out, I finally turned my head to the glass and looked at the man who had failed so miserably at taking his own life and succeeded so well in taking my brother's.

He looked me in the eyes and I stared back. There were so many emotions running through my head. Pain, hate, sadness, bitterness, confusion and then…release.

I broke out of my mother’s hold and walked back to the glass window.

I looked Davy up and down. He was backed up against the wall. He looked scared, weak.

It was almost as if my gaze on him was a pointed shot gun.

I tilted my head to the side and watched him cower in fear.

Then, I blinked.

He collapsed to the ground.

BAM

The last gun shot.

But I knew this time, it had succeeded.

I swallowed, took a deep breathe, exhaled, and turned away.

 


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