Lapping waves

That day was like a plane crash, an out of control disaster destined to ruin lives. It was a day that makes a mark, no matter how hard you try to erase it. Because things like that can't be erased. They stay with you forever.

It was nearly Christmas. It was the last day of term, and it snowed. The snowflakes fell like ash, brightening the ground, but darkening the sky. The blood seeped into the thickening layer of puffy white snow, staining it crimson and mixing into mush. Something was dripping onto the ground, water from the trees presumably. Blood was spilled never to be cleaned up again. Blood that belonged to friends and classmates. Blood that shouldn't have covered my hands, my clothes, my hair.

I stayed lying in the snow, a daze fogging my mind. Nothing else was to be done. Nothing was alive, except those stupid birds that wouldn't stop squawking. And me, I suppose.

I felt snowflakes on my freckled face, but the effort to shake them off was not within me. I became part of the snow; the snow became part of me. The sky was dark grey tinted yellow, the colour I used to wish for when I was little. It meant snow. Now I hate snow. Every time I see it I remember.

I remember how it started. I remember sitting in my maths classroom, and watching the first flakes fall. I remember running outside at break time and snowball fighting. I remember the first gunshot, and the flap of birds from trees. I remember dropping to the ground and rolling in the snow. I wasn't hurt, but I knew I had to hide. Someone was yelling, "GET DOWN!" And suddenly the laughter that had rang throughout the field we had played upon was screams and shouts and more gunshots. Oh, so many gunshots.

I lay in the snow, quivering, and I felt for my friend's hand. I touched it, but it was sticky and I instantly withdrew. A quick glance at my fingers told me I had felt blood. I swallowed and rolled over, the snow caking my amber hair. I stared into my friend's unblinking eyes, and at that moment I knew she was dead. I crouched next to her and placed my hands over the wound in her stomach. I leant my ear next to her mouth and heard no breath escape her lips. A sob found its way through me, and I shuddered back into the snow. Her blood covered my arms, and looking around I saw dead people, and vaguely knew of a man rushing toward me.

I called out to him, for him to help, before the bullet connected to my shoulder and I fell onto my back. He stood over me a moment, long enough for me to recognise him as a parent of a boy in my class, and long enough for me to see the gun clutched in his big fist. Long enough for me to see the glazed over expression in his eyes. Then he ran on. I still didn't understand why he wasn't helping. I could hear sirens, and soon people were pouring out of the school building, teachers and kids alike, terrified and running like their lives depended on it. Their lives did depend on it, I guess.

I stared up at the lumps of ice now falling. Hail. It hurt my face, but nothing compared to the burning sensation in my shoulder. I coughed and tried to call for help, thinking to myself, I'm going to die. A wail pushed its way through my lips, forcefully. More gunshots, each one making my body contort with fear. Then the sirens were so close. I tried to move my arms to my ears to block out the piercing sound, but my body wasn't responding properly. Then, one more gunshot, sounding very final.

Shouting, yelling, sirens. They all contaminated the silent world that hung heavy around me. But there were no more gunshots. No more strange men stood over me. Just one woman, looking very concerned.