jilty
07-22-2011, 11:39 AM
Memories
I start in the entranceway and find myself recalling my first day. If I think hard enough I can remember meeting Jimmy Little for the first time. He was new too, and we had started right here – at the entranceway, and then they had shown us round. Orientation, they had said. Get to see the building. So they had shown us all the different places. Places I know now better than most. Better than anyone. But back then it had all been new. Jimmy and I had listened when the adults spoke, and talked to each other when walking between rooms. We had talked about cards and television and a million other things I don’t care for anymore. It was busy back then, the school. But now it’s empty. Now, only a few remain.
From the entranceway I can see outside. I can see the concrete where we used to play. Where I played baseball for the very first time. I got a home-run, too. On my very first try. The others had cheered and called my name, and I had smiled. I remember that well – the busy playground where I had played baseball. It is busy now, too. I think they are waiting for me. But I don’t go to them.
I move further inside, to the room where the teasing had begun. I was only young then and Mr Jones had asked a question and gone to me for the answer. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know or couldn’t remember or something like that, and before long Tommy Smyth had announced to the class that I was stupid. And they had all joined in. Stupid Simon, they had shouted. Shouted and shouted and shouted. So I cracked. I cracked and threw my table against the wall and ran out. They had liked that. They liked my anger. It made them laugh.
I move to another classroom and recall another memory. This was the English classroom where I had been forced to try public speaking. I did try to do it, but I just couldn’t find any words. I had told Mrs. Wench this, but she wouldn’t listen. She just made me try again. So I did - again and again. But nothing would come. So the class had laughed. Quiet and restrained, at first, then full-blown and deliberate. Even Mrs. Wench was laughing. I was angry. But I kept it in this time. Better that way, I had thought.
I leave the classroom and find myself in the dining hall. For years I had sat next to Jimmy here at lunchtimes. After all, he had been my best friend from the beginning. But one day he had pushed me away. Right here in this dining hall he had pointed a wavering finger at me and accused me of following him around. He said that we were no longer friends and I had looked back at him with sad, confused eyes and asked what was the matter. But he never replied. He just left me and joined his friends. His new friends. He did it for them, I reckon – all this pushing and shouting – he had done it to make a point to them.
I visit the gym hall and I remember my first fight. I had pushed Terry Wuller here, when we had meant to be picking taems. I pushed him because of the things he said about me. The false, stupid things that people believed. I don’t know why they believed. Terry had gotten the better of me that day in the gym hall. Pushed me into the wall and laughed. Afterwards, in the changing room he had gathered his friends and they had pinned me down and beat me until I cried and screamed for them to stop. The next week I took my step dad’s knife into school and put it to Terry’s neck. Told him I was going to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not then.
I walk to Mr Callahan’s office. My last stop. My last memory. This is where he had asked me where I had gotten the knife. Asked me why I had done what I did. Worst of all, this is where he had leaned forward on his chair and grinned, properly grinned, as he told me I would never be coming back.
These are my memories. These are the reasons why I came back today. Why I started doing what I did.
*
The first was the most shocking, I suppose. To see the perplexed look on her face as I shot her in the chest – that wide-eyed stare as she staggered back against the lockers, her pink t-shirt stained with fresh blood. After that it was easier. One by one I shot them, letting some run away and shooting others as they ran. I had visited Mr Callahan’s office and watched him as he begged: quivering and saying the same things over and over again. Please, he had said, for the sake of his wife. Or his children. Now, he sits where I left him - slumped and unsmiling.
I return to the entranceway and look out again. They’ll come for me soon, I think.
So I look to the blood on my hands and ask myself aloud, “Have they gone? Is it any better?”
And I realise then that they will never leave me. They linger, always.
So I lift the gun to my forehead, only now realising what I have left in the minds of every one of these students. And the last thing I feel is pity as the world goes black and my memories are no more.
I start in the entranceway and find myself recalling my first day. If I think hard enough I can remember meeting Jimmy Little for the first time. He was new too, and we had started right here – at the entranceway, and then they had shown us round. Orientation, they had said. Get to see the building. So they had shown us all the different places. Places I know now better than most. Better than anyone. But back then it had all been new. Jimmy and I had listened when the adults spoke, and talked to each other when walking between rooms. We had talked about cards and television and a million other things I don’t care for anymore. It was busy back then, the school. But now it’s empty. Now, only a few remain.
From the entranceway I can see outside. I can see the concrete where we used to play. Where I played baseball for the very first time. I got a home-run, too. On my very first try. The others had cheered and called my name, and I had smiled. I remember that well – the busy playground where I had played baseball. It is busy now, too. I think they are waiting for me. But I don’t go to them.
I move further inside, to the room where the teasing had begun. I was only young then and Mr Jones had asked a question and gone to me for the answer. But I didn’t know. I didn’t know or couldn’t remember or something like that, and before long Tommy Smyth had announced to the class that I was stupid. And they had all joined in. Stupid Simon, they had shouted. Shouted and shouted and shouted. So I cracked. I cracked and threw my table against the wall and ran out. They had liked that. They liked my anger. It made them laugh.
I move to another classroom and recall another memory. This was the English classroom where I had been forced to try public speaking. I did try to do it, but I just couldn’t find any words. I had told Mrs. Wench this, but she wouldn’t listen. She just made me try again. So I did - again and again. But nothing would come. So the class had laughed. Quiet and restrained, at first, then full-blown and deliberate. Even Mrs. Wench was laughing. I was angry. But I kept it in this time. Better that way, I had thought.
I leave the classroom and find myself in the dining hall. For years I had sat next to Jimmy here at lunchtimes. After all, he had been my best friend from the beginning. But one day he had pushed me away. Right here in this dining hall he had pointed a wavering finger at me and accused me of following him around. He said that we were no longer friends and I had looked back at him with sad, confused eyes and asked what was the matter. But he never replied. He just left me and joined his friends. His new friends. He did it for them, I reckon – all this pushing and shouting – he had done it to make a point to them.
I visit the gym hall and I remember my first fight. I had pushed Terry Wuller here, when we had meant to be picking taems. I pushed him because of the things he said about me. The false, stupid things that people believed. I don’t know why they believed. Terry had gotten the better of me that day in the gym hall. Pushed me into the wall and laughed. Afterwards, in the changing room he had gathered his friends and they had pinned me down and beat me until I cried and screamed for them to stop. The next week I took my step dad’s knife into school and put it to Terry’s neck. Told him I was going to kill him. But I couldn’t. Not then.
I walk to Mr Callahan’s office. My last stop. My last memory. This is where he had asked me where I had gotten the knife. Asked me why I had done what I did. Worst of all, this is where he had leaned forward on his chair and grinned, properly grinned, as he told me I would never be coming back.
These are my memories. These are the reasons why I came back today. Why I started doing what I did.
*
The first was the most shocking, I suppose. To see the perplexed look on her face as I shot her in the chest – that wide-eyed stare as she staggered back against the lockers, her pink t-shirt stained with fresh blood. After that it was easier. One by one I shot them, letting some run away and shooting others as they ran. I had visited Mr Callahan’s office and watched him as he begged: quivering and saying the same things over and over again. Please, he had said, for the sake of his wife. Or his children. Now, he sits where I left him - slumped and unsmiling.
I return to the entranceway and look out again. They’ll come for me soon, I think.
So I look to the blood on my hands and ask myself aloud, “Have they gone? Is it any better?”
And I realise then that they will never leave me. They linger, always.
So I lift the gun to my forehead, only now realising what I have left in the minds of every one of these students. And the last thing I feel is pity as the world goes black and my memories are no more.