Three Empty Desks

I remember it well.

The fear. The shock...

The disbelief.

 

It had been a normal morning. I had gotten up, taken quite a long time to choose what to wear, eaten breakfast... caught the bus.

The first two blocks were normal. Almost fell asleep during science. Had to rub my eyes and take deep breaths just to pay attention in Spanish.

Then came my favorite class. World Civilization with Mrs. Waters.

I was always the first in there, enjoying the few minutes I was able to talk to my teacher one on one about the subject that bored most other students. I remember the questions I asked that day...

Did the women ever remarry or were they always thrown in the fire? How were the servents killed once thier master died? Were they buried just as nicely alongside the king? When were guns first used in China?

Grusome but common questions for such a class. She knew the answers to only one and, as usual, wrote down the rest for later research. As soon as I was satisfied, I went to my desk and sat down, preparing to write down the homework written on the board.

Only about seven other people were in the class by this time and the noise outside in the hallways...

The noise outside...

I looked up from my planner to see what at the time my mind couldn't comprehend. Everyone had dropped to the floor, one girl right in front of the room shaking horribly. I stood up, about to turn to Mrs. Waters when a loud crash sounded and a corner of a text book slammed into my upper shoulder. No...no there was no textbook.

I let out a scream as fell backwards into two other desks, crashing to the floor... red liquid soaking my vision.

More screams sounded and I felt a hand grip my arm tightly, pulling me farther to the ground. Another bam. Another. Then a third. Then a fourth. A fifth. My mind couldn't keep count as the noise echoed against the walls, shattering the windows that viewed the parking lot.

Suddenly an even louder bam sounded, echoing in my ears and standing out. I managed to catch the sight of a staggering boy, grasping his head, before crumbling to the ground with a final gasp. A black object fell from his hand.

The hand gripped my shoulder tighter, shaking me as my head fell back and I could feel it bouncing against the strangely warm and wet ground. Then...everything disapeared.

 

The police are amazed at how well I remembered everything...

They said usually trauma patients can only remember the tiny details.

I'm just angry I can't remember more. It's all just so fuzzy.

 

I can't walk through school now without people staring at me. It's only been four months. I'm still wearing the sling. I had to quit jazz band... my left arm now pretty much unusable...

The doctor said I might be able to use it after about four years of therapy. And only then to be learning to use my hand to write again.

 

The doctors, the police... everyone says I'm lucky. I suppose I am. People will always notice the scar right below my eye running to my ear. People will always notice how I struggle with focusing my left eye and moving my left arm.

I'm just worried people will stop noticing the three empty desks in Mrs. Water's classroom.

The doctors suggested I should change classes to avoid the trauma of remembering it.

I disagreed...

I think I find comfort in talking to Mrs. Waters. We're alot closer than we used to be.

I'm also alot closer to Sierra...

She's the one who held my arm so tight.

She's the one who apparently saved my life.

She kept enough pressure on the wound to stop me from bleeding too much. She also apparently never let me fall asleep completely... so I wouldn't fall into eternal sleep.

She has a scar too. From where she caught my head from slamming into the desks as hard as my back did. The metal leg snapped and cut into her hand. She'll never use it again.

It makes me feel like we now have some special connection.

 

The worst part isn't the stares though. It's not the fact that I'll never use my hand or arm for a very long time or even forever.

 

The worst part are the emtpy desks. The three empty desks...

 

I survived.

 

Three people didn't.

 

I still can sit at my desk.

 

Three chairs are emtpy...

 

My family can still talk to me at dinner.

 

Three families will never talk to thier children again...

 

No. Four families...

 

Micheal killed himself too.

 

He was the one with the gun.

 

The one who staggered forward before collapsing...

 

He was my brother.

 

Not anymore.

Author's Note

gosh... everything I write is so depressing...
Guess that's the only thing I'm good at writing...e.e

Anywho... not my best. Obviously...I didn't reread it. XD
But still...hope you enjoy....

Reviews

[TopHatGirl]

Stop using ... in writing. Stop right now. Have you stopped? Okay, good. It seems awkward in a story, and does nothing to help the writing.
Speaking of that, your sentences seem choppy in places. Smooth out the rough edges; take your time and don't rush to get through things you aren't sure about. Take out unnecessary details, like the talk before class.
A lot is two words.
Reread every story, there were a lot of elementary mistakes that could have been fixed with a quick once over.
NOW FOR THE PRAISE
Your sentences, when you use them correctly, have power and impact. The pace is good, and the final paragraphs would have been even better if they were all in one paragraph, no "... "
Rewrite this, I'm sure you'll feel better about it!