Found

Machine

The hum of the machines would have lulled anyone to sleep but not me. The fear that I had felt only days before clung to me, making my heart leap at the slightest sound, my legs jelly, my eyes water. I hadn't slept, not whilst he remains in his dangerous slumber, unwillingly containing him in a coma chamber. 

It was the bullet's fault, the three bullets that soared across the cupboard like eagles towards us. Bang. Bang. Bang. Towards me. Towards Will. Will saved me from deaths austere grip, he blocked it with his fragile body. He saved me for fault of his own body.

I don't remember much after that, I'd blacked out after the third bullet was fired. I guess the shakey handed murderer thought he had killed us both. He was only sixteen. He should have been partying, having his first kiss - not killing 100 children. His hand may have been shaking, but he still fired his gun. I won't ever forgive him for it. 

The constant news reports came reeling in, emotionless reporters probably annoyed they've had to report another school shooting. They filmed the president walking onstage, heartbroken -supposedly. He was the only person I couldn't watch. I didn't know much about him when I was back in England, nor did I care but now I've seen first hand how complacent he is towards the gun problem, so blind to the thousands of children who have been killed by his mistakes, I couldn't hate a man more. 

He came on stage, gripping a speech that he hadn't written, and began reeling off empty promises to help prevent the shootings that killed one of my best friends and almost killed the boy I love. 

Aaron.

He had been in the hallway as the gunman entered the building. He was shot in the back of the head. He didn't even know what was happening, he just turned around and was shot between the eyes. Aaron was my first friend here in America, and his life was taken away by the very country he held dear to his heart. A lump formed in my throat at the thought of his lifeless body being taken away, his eyes wide open not seeing death circling towards him. He'd done nothing wrong, yet he was punished. 

Not being able to watch a phony speech, I turned off the TV in Will's room. I bit my lip letting a few memories of Aaron slip from my eyes. My best friend. I drew my knees up to my chest, suddenly conscious of my unprotected chest. 

There was a small whisper in the back of my mind that told me I couldn't be afraid. I had got over what Thomas had done, but he hadn't taken away a life. The gunman's name flickered across my eyes, flashing a danger sign. Jacob Smith. 

He was like Thomas. Compelled by the evil forces in the universe, driven mad by the suppression in the world. And just like Thomas, he was shot on sight. 

I shook his eyes out of my memories, both of their eyes. I wouldn't let this contain me, I wanted it too, but I was four months away from my Broadway debut - I wasn't going to give it up to any man who thought a child doesn't deserve to live. 

I turned back to Will, continually staring at his pale face. The black bags under my eyes grew like moss, I wouldn't sleep until he was awake. I told myself I was afraid to sleep because I didn't want to wake up without another friend, but every time I close my eyes, even just for a moment, the end of the gun barrel flashed across my mind, along with Aaron's face. His red bullet hole framing his gaunt face. 

His last words rang in my ears, like whispered incantations of bewilderment, not knowing if I should savor his memory keep it for myself or to share his story. I wasn't ready to make that decision, I'm not sure when I will be. 

A hand gripped my shoulder, making me shudder with crippling fear. I knew neither of my torturers could get to me, but... I couldn't get their faces out of my head. 

It was actually my Dad who had tapped my shoulder. He gave me an apologetic look, not saying a word, before pulling my arm and making me reluctantly stand up. He took my place, sinking into the sofa fabric, before pulling me into his lap, tucking my feet between his legs. 

I lay my head back onto his chest, watching Will. That's when I lost it. 

I broke down. 

Unable to contain the pain I had felt. Since England. Since Thomas. Since the bullets. I'd felt like a machine for so long, unable to feel any emotions towards what had happened to me over the course of the last few years. I had trusted some force unknown that I would be led to something new, and I always had. But I was stuck in the unbalanced. I didn't know whether to run or hide or keep faith and keep going. Nothing was guiding me, just pushing me down at every good turn. 

I had no idea where to go. All I knew was that my tears would construct the loss I had endured, covering and uncovering my past, present, and future all at the same time in a hurricane of untold truths and lies. A storm of emotions, lust, and comfort compiled into the mixture. It was fate. It was always fate.