It was more than a school shooting

Chapter seven

When we got to the building, it felt alien to me. I didn't belong there. I know what I saw, and I know what I heard. My parents had to fill out some paper work, first. Then we went into the office.

"Good morning, my name is Ms. Cathryn," a voice said.

"Good morning," my parents said almost in unison. I stayed silent.

"Please, sat down."

After my parents and I sat down, my father began telling the therapist about everything I told him and my mother. She only sat there taking notes. She then shifted her attention to me.

"Have you been having any nightmares?" she asked in a concerned tone.

I was, but I didn't say anything. I didn't want what I know I saw to be blamed on some vivid nightmare.

"Maybe it would be best if you two left the room," she said directed at my parents.

"Okay," my father said. They left shortly after that, and it was just me and that therapist.

"Could you... please explain everything that happened?"

With a heavy sigh, I did just that.

"Who is this Mr. Stevens character?" she asked.

"Character," I said in confusion, "He the one who saved me from those people." My voice started to raise, slightly.

"Listen, this Mr. Stevens never taught at that high school. Was he a teacher from your Elementary school?"

"No! I know what saw!" I started to scream, but I couldn't help it. I just couldn't believe what I was hearing. She was telling me that the man who saved me never existed. She just sat in silence, taking notes. I stopped myself before saying anything else. I was just so frustrated.

"You're a victim. You must have imagined what you saw that day, to cope with the reality of what happened."

My frustration was turning into anger. "Why would I imagine something at that?" I said while holding back my anger.

"I don't know? But... it's treatable. I can prescribe you pills that will take care of it all."

Even then, I knew something was up. Her wording must have giving it away. 'Pills that will take care of it all.' That's exactly what she said. It sounded to good to be true. I guess she wasn't wrong, though. She let my parents back in the room and went into more detail about the pills. To be honest, I wasn't paying attention to what she was telling them, but I did hear her say, "Benzodiazepines." I didn't know what they were at the time, but I wish I did. I wish I would have just did a simple Google search but I didn't.

The next day, my mother came into my room to give me the pills. She said to take one every night before going to bed. I listened, and every night after that, for the next week, I took one pill before going to bed. Surprisingly, I felt better, a lot better. I wasn't having anymore nightmares, and I wasn't constantly thinking of the tragedy that happened. Finally, after a week, I decided to search up the medicine that I was taking, for curiosity's sake.

I found out that they were sleeping pills. Why would she prescribe me sleeping pills? There had to be another reason. I did more research, and it didn't take me too long before I found out they were linked to memory loss. MEMORY LOSS. I tried my best think back on what happened that day, I could only vaguely remember. I had forgotten so much. I stopped taking those pills, immediately. We still visited that therapist every other day. My parents always left the room, so it was always just me and her. After I stopped taking those pills, I noticed how bizarre and eerie her questions were, if you could even call them that.

When she would ask me a question, she would answer it and then tell me to repeat it. She would do this three times and then ask me another question. Did she always do that? Her questions were unsettling, too. I remember her asking, "How many people died?" She answered, "Zero," and told me to repeat it. I didn't repeat what she said this time. She only sighed, and said, "I told them you wouldn't take those pills."
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