Bullet

Chapter 8 - Storms Are Ahead

Chapter 8
Storms Are Ahead

“But I just don’t understand what happened!” my father wailed.

After getting checked out by the frantic EMT who swore I was delusional when I said I wasn’t hurt, I was forced into talking to some of the detectives on the scene and chatting with a bunch of different business dressed men whose names I couldn’t bother to remember. The amount of blood caked onto my skin through my tights and the spots stained on my clothes could have pointed in another direction, saying that I wasn’t okay, but I was only hurting on the inside. Physically…I was okay. Mentally…I wasn’t so sure.

The conversation I had with one of the detectives didn’t last very long, for he told me that he would be in touch in the next few days for me to come in and give a statement and actually tell him what happened today. As I walked away from him, my heart was suddenly heavy with regret and an inkling of fear still running in my veins. Looking around me, people were crying, shouting, shivering against their nerves. I couldn’t help but feel like I had caused this mess. Carter had pushed him, but I pushed him further.

I didn’t know if I should apologize because I was his sister. I should have seen signs that he was going to do something so big like this. Maybe he had planted a path of small clues that I just stepped over and pretended I didn’t see. But every time I passed another frightened figure in the school’s courtyard, I saw that I couldn’t look them in the eyes. I felt responsible, liable, and so fucking confused.

When I managed to make my way home, my father was the only one home, his car the only one in the driveway. I wondered where the hell my mom was, knowing full well that her daughter attended the school that just witnessed the first shooting in this city. My father’s shrill voice picked up with the wind I brought in behind me, making me want to close the front door quietly and make my presence unknown. But I couldn’t do that either.

I felt so outside of myself, like the person walking into this house and picking up their feet wasn’t me. My heart wasn’t the one that was beating; my eyes were the ones that were blinking rapidly to hide the incessant tears that just didn’t seem to stop.

It hurt seeing all of the kids at school being reciprocated by their parents in the courtyard, mothers brushing back their daughter’s hair and fathers not letting go of their broken down sons. Mine were nowhere to be seen in that moment, but I knew why. They were working hard or picking back up their broken pieces, so they must have missed the news of the shooting.

Until now.

As I slowly walked to the kitchen entryway, the squeak of my still somewhat slippery Doc Marten’s must have pulled my dad’s attention away from his conversation because he immediately dropped the phone, the pounding of plastic against the granite countertop making me jump, and he ran straight for me. Enveloping me in his arms, he kept squeezing me tighter, almost like he was trying to make sure that I was actually here.

“Jesus, Callie. Are you alright? Were you hit? How did you get home? Why didn’t you wait for me?” he hurried on, his sentiment making the annoying tears spring back to life once more.

I hadn’t answered after quite some time, so he pulled back and kept his hands clasped around my arms. “You’re covered in blood! Are you hurt?” he cried, his dull green eyes wide with parental concern and relief that I was alive.

I shook my head abruptly, no longer keeping up with the job of pushing down the tears. I just kept shaking my head, my hair springing back and forth, and let the tears fall. My whole body seemed to break then, everything feeling weak and lifeless. Nothing seemed right. This school day didn’t seem real. I half expected Clay to come through the door with that bouncy look in his eyes and greet everyone.