“People are dying!” Casey screamed, fumbling with the window locks.
She couldn’t open them and grabbed a chair. She swung it against the window. Nothing. She swung again. Nothing. She grunted and slung the chair a third time, cracking the glass a fraction. She pulled back and swung with all her might, shattering the glass completely. She balled her hands and punched out the shards, then leaned her face out.
“WE NEED AN AMBULANCE! NOW!!!” she bellowed, and watched two small men dressed in black run for the door nearest the lab.
She ran back to Regan and clutched her hand.
“They’re coming, Regan,” she panted.
Regan nodded, eyes closed. “I’m cold.”
“I didn’t mean it . . .”
“No, you’re not,” Casey barked. “It’s not cold in here. You’re not cold.”
Jeremy ripped off his shirt and bunched it against Regan’s wound.
“I know when I’m cold, Case,” Regan argued.
“I didn’t mean it . . .”
Casey looked at Jeremy and nodded. “Good sign,” she mouthed.
“I didn’t mean it,” they heard Hannah say, and then a final blast filled the room.
Casey screamed. Jeremy jumped up, cursing himself for letting Hannah go. But she didn’t go far. She was on the floor—a pistol by her side—a hole in her temple. The rifle lay untouched where he’d kicked it. He had no idea she carried a second gun. He had no idea she planned to use it on herself.
And then he wept. He wept for his friend whose years-long torture resulted in this: death everywhere. Terror everywhere. He wept as the S.W.A.T. team burst through the classroom door, yelling at him to get on his knees with his hands behind his head. He wept as the E.M.T.’s rushed the room with a stretcher, working carefully and quickly to secure Regan and remove her to an ambulance. He wept for Brandon who did one right thing—lying dead and redeemed in the center of the room. He wept for the words in his journal—for the boy who almost committed the crime—who thought it justified and right.
“She our perp?” he heard a S.W.A.T. team member ask, pointing to Hannah. She was strapped with bullets—the dead giveaway.
He nodded.
“You hurt?”
He nodded.
“Where?”
“My heart,” Jeremy cried softly.
The officer frowned, confused, pulling Jeremy to his feet, feeling about his chest for a wound, blood, something.
“You’re okay,” he said to Jeremy. “Stay close.”
He led Jeremy and Casey to the safety of the football field where students amassed in droves. Jeremy tried to look away from the bodies dotting the hallways as they went, but he lost it upon seeing Mr. Armstrong, who lay slumped against a desk in the front office. He spotted him through the window, still clutching the intercom microphone.
“He didn’t expel her!” Jeremy cried, thinking of Regan’s meltdown—her threat to kill him. “He didn’t expel her!”
Casey didn’t understand. “It’s okay,” she said, taking Jeremy’s hand and pulling him away from the office window.
“He was a nice person,” Jeremy said. “He was good.”
Casey nodded and pulled him along, keeping close on the heels of the S.W.A.T. team.
“Regan,” Jeremy whispered. “Where’s Regan?”
“She’s okay. They took her to the hospital,” Casey said, but the instant sweat on her hand betrayed her lie. Jeremy felt it.
“You don’t know,” he accused her. “You don’t know!”
Casey pulled him to a stop just short of a group of students clutching one another and crying hysterically.
“I do know it,” she said firmly. “Look at me.”
He lifted his face to hers, staring into her eyes.
“I do know it,” she said, unblinking.
He nodded, and then she pulled him close.
He cried on her shoulder. “Please, be right.”
~
Remember that journal entry from a while back about how tough it is to maintain a definitive goal about killing people after you’ve had such a fantastic day? It’s somewhere in my pages and pages of verbal vomit. I’d look for it, but I’m too lazy.
Whatever. Doesn’t matter. The point is that I think the hardest part about being a vigilante is all the seriousness that goes along with it. Sometimes I don’t wanna be serious. Sometimes I wanna have fun, just like everyone else. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I DO NOT wanna have fun with those people. But the ones I guess I could tentatively call friends . . . well, yeah. I wanna have fun with them. Joke around. Share moments that don’t mean anything.
Like eating a burger. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s not rife with purpose. You’re just stuffing your body, so it won’t starve and die. I just wanna eat a fucking burger and not think about it—think about my next move. Think about my enemies. Think about how and why they must die. Think about the aftermath and the broken hearts (yeah, even assholes have at least one person whose heart would break over their deaths). I’m just saying I’d like to not think about it all the time.
No wonder Batman got old. Soooo serious. Like, what the fuck, dude? Crack a joke. Crack a smile, at least. Life isn’t that gloomy, is it? You don’t have to be that “justified” all the time, do you? Normal, everyday life isn’t some constant epic battle between good and evil, is it? It can’t be that morose. (Oh, good fucking word.) There are glimpses of really good shit—people’s faces who enjoy my company. The way they smile. The way they respond to my sarcasm. I would almost say I love them if the vigilante hadn’t trained that emotion out of me. I would almost say I could give it all up for them if I knew they’d stick around forever. But high schoolers don’t stick around forever. We all go our separate ways. I guess I’m cool with that. I mean, the thought of starting over is definitely tempting. But my vigilante won’t let me. She’s forcing me to be the hero . . . well, heroine (if you wanna get technical). She’s forcing me to take action now. So, I guess I’ve gotta heed the call. Who else will?
It’s kinda funny, actually. Even she bosses me around. I can’t fucking win.
Anyway, laters . . . (haha, just kidding! I’d never fucking say that.) I’m out.
Hannah
~