Madison didn’t sit in her usual spot by the window. She didn’t say anything to Sophia about the video she’d sent her of Charli vomiting in the girl’s bathroom. Elijah didn’t announce his late entry to class with raised hands expecting to be welcomed as a celebrity. Harper didn’t have a single thing to say about Isabelle B.’s commitment to her latest self-diagnosis, or about Mason’s latest identity, that he was, without a doubt, irrevocably sure of this time. There was no chatter in the school hallways. All Sarah could hear was the wind bristling through the shattered windows.
Sarah got up from the floor and started shuffling between the desks. Yesterday’s homework spotted the carpet, strewn about like autumn leaves ready to be kicked up by the next bumbling toddler. A science textbook lay still, bent backwards, its pages crushed. Maths had fared better, propped up idly against a discarded backpack.
She made it to the doorway, hesitated, then stepped cautiously into the hallway. The fluorescent light bulbs had shattered, covering the floor with piercing snowflakes. The hallway was dark, despite it not yet being 2pm. A locker door hung open with a bloody hand print grasping at its flaking paint.
Sarah turned left into the next hallway, her heart rate rising. There were three tiny bullet holes in the plasterboard of Science Lab 3. Dust still hung in the air, like smog over a bustling city, dancing in the stream of light from the classroom within. A pure spring water lake formed on the speckled grey tiles. It flowed from a discarded water bottle at the height of a backpack mountain. Three wet boot prints darkened the tiles to a bitumen grey. They were fresh but they were behind her, so she pushed on.
At the end of the hallway, Sarah turned left again, trying to quieten her shaky breaths. Smoke floated through the air. Sparkles trembled amongst it like little lanterns released into a cloudy sky. A fire crackled nearby. The sprinklers had not started; never maintained, they had no hope of smothering the blaze.
The outside door was near. It stood ajar, just a touch. A lost school bag held it open for her, one last time, like the kid who owned it, Tommy French — the self-appointed door guard. The light from outside cut through the smoke, streaming through the gap in the door. Sarah pushed. The sun blinded, overwhelming her view. She could only feel the familiar stairs. The handrail was slimy, like the scum on old chicken. Perhaps blood-fingered-locker-girl had left this way, leaving breadcrumbs for Sarah to follow.
Slowly, the image before her started to take shape. The chatter resumed: not of gossip or identity but indiscernible rumblings from the street. A loudspeaker announced something Sarah could not understand. Her eyes adjusted to the brightness. Amid the blinding sun danced red and blue, pulsing rhythmically atop a line of police cars. Sarah’s classmates were wrapped in blankets sitting on the backs of ambulances. Police ran by. An officer approached Sarah carrying a blanket. But within seconds everything began to become distorted again. The sharp outlines blurred and dripped as Sarah began to cry. She’d made it. She was safe.
Ashley Akers is a writer from Melbourne, Australia.
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