I flinch when another thought crosses my mind and force myself to go to the desk wedged in a far corner of the room to boot up my laptop. By the time the browser comes up, I’m in a cold sweat.
Blood thumps against my eardrums as I type.
North Atlanta Prep Shooting
Fuck. I take a deep breath and steady my hand.
Enter
Hundreds of results come up, the most recent being news covering the ten-year anniversary of Atlanta’s biggest tragedy. My fucking father’s brilliant idea.
Nausea and rage eat away at my insides. The fact that my dad thinks he can make up for missing Kinsey’s entire life by throwing some sick, pointless party and erecting a memorial at the school makes me want to rip out his throat with my bare hands.
Further down the screen, I click a link for a news report from ten years ago. After the page loads, I have to close my eyes and swallow several times to keep from throwing up. Photos of the victims line the top of the article, including one of my beautiful little sister, smiling and happy and full of life.
Tears prick my eyes when I open them back up, the moisture blurring my vision. I dash them away with my bruised hands, determined to see this through no matter what it costs me emotionally. I need to know Britt’s involvement in the shooting, if any. I need to make things right. I need her.
The beginning of the article covers facts I already know, so I skim quickly. A decade ago, these same facts were repeated on the news over and over and over until they became a low hum in the background of my guilt and selfishness. The principal, vice-principal, school secretary, football coach who happened to stop by the office to pick up some forms, the clerk, school nurse, seven other students who were part of an after school club, and my sister were all pronounced dead at the scene of multiple gunshot wounds along with the shooter, who killed himself. Shaking, I read further and stop, blinking in disbelief.
One survivor, an unnamed student with traumatic brain injuries from a bullet to the head.
One survivor.
Student.
Head injury.
How did I forget there was a survivor? Probably because I was a complete, near suicidal mess at the time, drinking myself into oblivion every day.
The image of Britt lying on the cold concrete in the Nevada Arena, her entire body rocking with violent tremors as a seizure took hold, enters my mind. Britt hit her head pretty hard, but is it possible that wasn’t the only reason for the seizure? Is Britt the lone survivor of the crime that took my sister’s life?
Out of my chair and flying down the hall, I make it as far as the bathroom sink before retching, the contents of my stomach forced from my body. It takes forever to stop heaving, my guts clenching again and again until I’m empty and my sweaty shirt is sticking to my chest.
On autopilot, I brush my teeth and change clothes. Further online searches yield no results. The name of the survivor was never released to the public.
I’m not scared of much. Hell, I’m not scared of anything. Except this. The past. Facing my actions and admitting my role in the tragedy. No matter the cost to me, I need to make things right with Britt. Without thinking, I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and grab my keys, leaving the condo without looking back.
I’m coming, baby. No fucking way am I going to let you down the way I did my little sister and my mother. You’re not running away from me. We’ll face this shit together.
Britt
My head feels as if it’s wrapped in gauze and weighs a thousand pounds. That thought causes a moment of déjà vu. When I realize why, fear stabs into me like a dagger to the heart. This is exactly how I felt after waking up from the coma—head heavy, mind foggy, disconnected body. Am I back in the hospital?
When I try to look around, my eyelids refuse to cooperate, staying closed despite my efforts to open them. My limbs feel like lead and testing each one, I can’t get a single one to move. The only part of me responding to the situation is my heart, which is now pounding erratically as my body holds me prisoner.
“Still out, huh?” The voice is distorted through the murky sludge in my brain, but it’s familiar. “Just sleep.” A cold hand caresses my face, brushing my hair back. I want to slap the hand away. It feels wrong, creepy. With chills rippling across my skin, I slip back into darkness.
The next time I wake up, my eyelids open on command. I’m in a dark room. Specifically, on a bed in a dark room. A hint of light peeks through a crack along the curtains, but isn’t enough to give me a clue as to what time of day it is. I try to lick my lips but my mouth is too dry, my tongue sticky and swollen. The muggy air is tinged with a chemical scent. When I try to sit I tense up and freeze.
Some sort of fibrous rope is cutting into my wrists. My hands are tied together. I test my feet only to find those bound as well. Panic rises quickly, gripping me in its tight fist. Breathing becomes difficult as my lungs squeeze the air out and refuse to let more in. My pulse rockets sky-high, and I have to fight the urge to scream.