Three Black Roses

When they heard the first shot they didn't think anything of it. The second shot sent a ripple of whispers through the students. The third started a wildfire of panic. [note-some cursing.]

                When they heard the first shot they didn’t think anything of it. They brushed it off as a locker slamming too loud, or something falling in another classroom, or some science experiment gone wrong in the chemistry lab down the hall. The second shot sent a ripple of whispers through the students. The third shot started a wildfire of panic.

               

Chris Bates led his third period English class to the door of the classroom. He stood at the threshold while his class merged with the multitude of other students racing towards the stairs. Behind the teenagers were graph papers and calculus worksheets, copies of the periodic table of elements, calculators and Spanish workbooks.

               

Chris looked up and down the hall. Teachers were trying to remain calm while directing the students to the staircase. The students weren’t even trying to fake composure. A terrified girl was reaching for her friend’s hand, yelling that someone had been shot. Chris tried to run to her, but he couldn’t keep up. Fear made people run at superhuman speeds.

               

A boy somewhere behind him shouted to another the name of the shooter, but with all the voices rising around him Chris couldn’t hear it. He spun around and did his best to move against the current of bodies. He grabbed the shoulders of a passing football player.

               

“Do you know what happened?” he shouted.

               

“Logan Clancy,” the boy replied. “In the gym!”

               

Chris let the boy go and bounded down the hall, pushing aside anyone who was in his way. In his mind he drew up the quickest route to the gym. He rushed down two flights of stairs and tore down the hallways into the activity wing. He took a short cut through the cafeteria. Everyone who could have rescued themselves was gone already, but there were two girls behind the serving counter sobbing in each other’s arms and a group of students huddled under a table, too afraid to care about the gum that was tangling itself in their hair. Everyone seemed in one piece. Chris was ready to head into the gym when he heard a moan in the corner. He looked over to see a boy curled there, his eyes shut tight, his right arm holding his left close to his chest. Christ went to him quickly, crouched down in front of him. He touched the boy’s shoulder, which made him jump. When he looked up at Chris with his frightened blue eyes, Chris immediately recognized him. His name was Ian, and he sat in the back seat of the third row in Chris’s fifth period class.

               

“Ian,” Chris said softly. “Ian, it’s ok.”

               

Ian shook his head and looked down. It was then that Chris noticed the bits of blood on Ian’s black jeans, the trail of it on his pale arm.

               

“Let me see that,” Chris said, trying to take Ian’s arm. But Ian shook his head again and, if possible, pulled his arm closer to himself. “What happened?”

               

“Logan Clancy,” Ian said so quietly that Chris, only inches away, had to strain to hear.

               

“Do you know which way he went?” With his good arm, Ian pointed towards the far door of the cafeteria, the one that brought you into a hallway that could take you to the library. Chris looked around. On the floor there were a few ribbons and bandanas left behind by horrified students. He took a few of them and tied them together. “Let me see you arm,” Chris said. Ian looked at him from behind his jet-black bangs. Chris almost couldn’t see Ian’s left eye because of all the hair in front of it. “Please,” Chris said and Ian nodded and reluctantly held out his arm.

               

The wound was on his forearm. There was no bullet and the hole wasn’t deep. It looked as if the bullet aimed at Ian had only grazed his skin. Chris wrapped his makeshift bandage around it. He tightened it so much that Ian winced. Chris made sure it was secure and then he raised Ian’s arm above his hand. Ian groaned.

               

“You have to keep it higher than your heart,” Chris explained. He took Ian’s other hand and brought it to the bandage. He found where the wound was and forced Ian’s right hand to put pressure over it. “I know hurts, but leave it like that, ok? Someone’s going to be here to help you.”

               

Ian bit his lower lip, unsure. He let his legs fall in front of him, and then quickly drew his knees back his chest as if the movement had been a mistake.

               

“Trust me,” Chris said. Ian nodded, and although Chris knew that Ian shouldn’t be left alone he also knew that he had to find Logan Clancy before somebody else was hurt. He stood up and crossed the cafeteria, looking back at Ian one last time before taking off at a sprint towards the library.

               

The first thing he saw was blood stains on the carpet. The second thing was the body of a girl, Chelsea Shipton, a senior whom Chris had taught as sophomore who still liked to pop her head into his classroom and say hello, lifeless under a table. He knelt by her, brushed his hand over her face so that her eyes closed. He looked up to see the body of a boy he didn’t know slumped against a bookcase. He then heard someone crying. His heart started pounding in his ears. Would he find someone else wounded, like he’d found Ian? He’d been too late to save Chelsea and the other student. Was there someone else dying? Would he be too late to save them, too?

               

Chris did the best he could he shove his thoughts aside. He didn’t have time to think, only time to act. He pushed himself to his feet and followed the sound to the bank of computers that took up the right-hand side of the library.

               

“Who’s there?” Chris called. He got no reply. His heart started beating faster. He heard another sob and followed it to the last row of computers at the back of the room. “Who’s there?” he repeated.

               

“Get the hell out,” a voice growled. It would have sounded threatening, too, if it hadn’t cracked and squeaked the way teenaged voices do.

               

“Logan?” Chris could only assume it was him. He didn’t know Logan Clancy personally. He didn’t teach Logan or moderate any activities he was involved in. He knew Logan from Senorita Elisa Garcia’s Spanish class which took place across the hall from his English class during the third, fourth and fifth periods. He would see the scrawny boy come out of the classroom last every day, his head ducked as if that would be enough to shield him from the glances of his peers. “Logan, is that you?”

               

“I said get the hell out!” This time Logan shouted.

               

“Logan, I want to help you,” Chris told him. Logan came out from underneath a computer desk. He had a handgun, which he pointed at Chris.

               

“I told you to get the hell out!” he screamed. Chris held up his hands and took a step away from Logan Clancy.

               

“I came here to help you,” he said again. “Put down the gun and talk to me.”

               

Logan shook his head and raised the gun higher so that the barrel was aimed at Chris’s head.

               

“Ok,” Chris said, taking another step away.

              

  “Stop it!” Logan bellowed. “Stop it! Stop walking away like a goddamn coward! Face me!”

               

Chris stopped in his tracks. He waited a few silent seconds and then took one step closer to the boy. Logan seemed to approve of this because he lowered the gun slightly. The gun was now aimed at Chris’s chest.

               

“Logan, why are you doing this?” Logan started to laugh. That made Chris sick to his stomach. Logan had scared the students, wounded them, killed them, for God’s sake, and there he was, laughing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Chris hissed.

               

“What's wrong with me?” Logan asked, practically doubling over with laughter. “What’s wrong with me? What's wrong with the goddamn b*****s and dicks in this f*****g school? Do you see what it takes to make a few people f*****g listen to you?” He brandished his gun. “Do you see what it takes to make these a******s stop tormenting you? I’m doing the same thing to all of them that they did to me. You wanna know the only difference?”

               

Chris ground his teeth together. Was this what was going through Logan’s head when he shot Ian, Chelsea and the nameless boy?

               

“The difference is that I used a real gun. None of those dicks had the balls to do that.”

               

“How many people did you kill?” Chris gritted out.

               

“In a minute,” Logan said, “three.”

               

He brought the gun to his head, letting the cool barrel touch his temple.

               

“Logan, don-“ Chris was inturrupted when the gun went off.

 

Author's Note

Sort of written on a whim. I like how it came though. I didn't proof read, so there's bound to be some grammar errors and typos. Comments and crit greatly appreciated. :3

Reviews

[Tallulah]

that is so sad....i feel so bad for Logan. this story really proves a point. peoples action affect everyone from slightest to biggest way. great jpb.

[Marlena]

I liked it, I think it went kind of fast though, but that's just my opinion. Good job :)

[Aekmy]

"A boy somewhere behind him shouted to another the name of the shooter", a comma should be before to and after another.
I know what you mean about proof reading. :3 I loved the introduction. And you progressed up to the shooting very well.
Oh my wow. I had a feeling he would do that, but I didn't think he would. Very sad concept here, but also a very realistic one. If kids would be a little less pushy and rude, things like this may not happen.
Interesting and well penned write. :D
-Maria

[Silver Moon Authors]

This is really good ! I really liked it !