“Let me in,” a gruff voice barked in the distance. It obviously belonged to a man. It was coming from behind the door. “Or else I’ll shoot the window open.”
I froze as my legs turned to jelly. My heart rose to my throat, and I felt as if I were about to choke. He must have heard me walking around. How could I be so careless? I shook so violently that I almost collapsed to the floor. I slowly crept across the smooth white vinyl tiles, breathing faster with each step. I closed my eyes for a moment, bracing myself, then slowly opened them once again and inched even closer to the door. Then a thought struck me. I was locked in here! I couldn’t open the door for this criminal even if I wanted to.
Then I did the dumbest thing possible.
“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I” I violently stuttered.
“You what!? Can’t stop saying I?” the man snarled.
“I-I-I’m locked in here. I couldn’t let you in if I wanted to! I’m sorry! Don’t shoot me sir! Please! Spare me!”
He growled and I could hear the click of him loading his gun. I screamed a blood curdling scream, and the next thing I knew bullets flew through the window and glass shards rained down. A few hit me, cutting into my skin. I shook my arm as an attempt to rid myself of them. They fell out, and the floor was showered with blood droplets. I wasn’t shot, but the glass had cut me pretty bad. Not thinking clear, frightened, and thoughts scattered, I jumped into the washroom with my backpack. I slammed the thick metal door behind me, hoping it would be enough to protect me from the constant fire of bullets. I threw the backpack on the floor and it landed in a soapy puddle. I pressed my back against the door, hyperventilating. I realized I was also sobbing. The bullets pinged against the door. They suddenly halted to a stop, and the shooter on the other side of the door spoke up.
“I’ll be back to finish you off.” He stated in a low voice. I heard him walk away, and soon after some other gunshots from farther away sounded.
What a sick man. He was killing dozens of children who had never done anything to harm him. I needed a moment to collect myself, so I sat there for a minute trying to calm down but I couldn’t. After what Ms. Robespierre did, the school shooting, and learning of Trump’s plans, I was pretty sure I would be permanently traumatized. My heart was still racing and I felt like it was going to burst from my chest. I crawled through the dark, accidentally soaking my knee in the soap water puddle, towards the Febreze can. For some reason I liked to spray things when I was anxious. I picked the cold metal can up, but before spraying I realized that something reeked of fresh blood. It was coming from the other side of the door. I hauled the backpack over my shoulders, buckling a bit under its weight. I held the can in front of me, ready to spray anything waiting for me on the other side of the door. As if that could possibly help. I cautiously opened the bathroom door, listening to it creak like an old tree. I stepped out and saw something horrific.
The shooter’s burly, rough hand sat in a dark pool of blood. Severed.
I froze and that was the last thing I remember.
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