The Gunman

A bang. A pop. A explosion. Whatever you choose to call it, made its way through a school, changing lives in an instant. A gunman had made his way to the shool, done with the years of torture and bullying. It was his time to make a statement. This story follows many different perspectives of the shooting going from parents, to victims, to survivors, and even to the shooter himself. Read the feelings of people trying to escape.


10. Mrs. Donnel

~~When I got the call, it didn’t seem real. I had set the phone down, and stood in place for many minutes, not trusting myself to take a step. A cry of despair escaped my lips as I collapsed, the world spinning around me.
My kid, my baby, was stuck in his school. With a shooter. My mind raced, trying to figure out if that was just a cruel prank call, some sick individual trying to have fun. I didn’t have time to stay there, crying. I had to get up get to the school, see if it was true.
There was no fear, no patience as I drove. My speedometer reached up to ninety miles per hour when there were other cars on the road, and one hundred twenty when there wasn’t. The hands of mine, which held the wheel, were clenched. Making my knuckles turn into a yellowish white color.
I leaned forward in my seat, like I was helping to move the vehicle faster. Tears of fear streamed down my cheeks as my body shook. It was when I reached the school that the real horror started.
There were parents everywhere, crying, and looking as if they were in shock. I didn’t even bother paring my car; my feet hit the ground before it even stopped moving. Instantly I sought out one of the many officers surrounding the building. “What’s happening?” I asked the man in the uniform, tugging on his sleeve like a child.
The officer, Gene, it said on his name tag, looked at me with pity in his eyes before saying, “We don’t know for sure. Many gun shots have been fired, and we have evidence that there is many dead bodies.”
A cough escaped my throat, and then turned into a sob. “How do you know? Do you know who’s dead?” My shaking voice pleaded the officer to give me something, anything to let me know my boy was still among the living.
“We got many calls, but the one that actually showed us anything was from a student. The child called the police department, told us there was a shooter. It was just like all the other calls until a huge popping noise, like that of a gun was fired. The child screamed something, not understandable, and then more gun shots fired. The student never answered the dispatcher back.” The police officer turned back to the school, his face was a mask of stone.
That was all I really needed to hear. I slunk back towards the other parents, who were crying and embracing each other. I sat on the hot pavement, which the near summer sun provided. I had nobody to comfort me, not that I could have been comforted in that situation. My husband had died a year ago in Afghanistan, leaving me alone with my child to raise all alone. I had been doing pretty well up to that point. Up until that day.
That morning, he and I had gotten in a fight. I had no idea what it was even about; it was just a senseless fight. He had yelled at me, I had yelled back. Then, he had stormed out the door and onto the yellow bus.
I was going to talk to him later, work things out.  That was the first time we had fought, ever. We had that relationship where fighting never seemed necessary, we just lived with each other, talked every morning. I would tell him I loved him and he would roll his eyes with a playful smile then say it back.
As of that moment, though. It didn’t seem like I was ever going to hear my baby say I love you again. Or get a friendly hug when I needed one. Right then, it felt like I had lost both the boys I cared about in one year.
All you could hear me saying, while I sobbed was his name. His beautiful name was the only thing I could hold onto. I said it over, and over, and over again. “Austin.”

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