Illustration by Tanya Jain
content note: this piece is a work of fiction inspired by real events and contains discussion of gun violence, death, trauma, and fear.
—
the classroom next door is making popcorn,
or construction workers are fixing the roof,
hammering bang! bang! bang!
children are popping bubble wrap,
and celebrating birthdays
by setting off confetti cannons.
so why are we running to close the blinds
over the windows?
why is there a black sheet covering the sliver of glass
in the door?
why are we pushing our desks towards the exit
trying to barricade the room?
why are we huddled behind our teacher’s desk
trying to disappear?
and then a silhouette pauses,
a furious tornado of vile hatred of the world
cast against the window shades.
everything’s still, silent. until
the glass of the window shatters,
falling…falling…falling…
down to the floor
with the sound of a bluebell’s deadly ring.
the room fills with echoes of screams
that didn’t escape unmoving lips in time—
before they went still.
a searing pain slices across my leg,
and before i know what’s happening,
my friend throws her body in front of mine.
our eyes meet, just for a second,
before it happens.
one, two, three, four,
and she leaves.
a curtain of mist clouds her eyes,
and i can no longer see.
a quiet cacophony engulfs the room,
until i once again hear the shattering ring of bluebells,
and distant screams reverberating down the halls,
lessening with each note of the bluebell’s melody.
one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
and then it stops, and i hear footsteps outside,
as loud as each numbered staccato—
and the silence that follows.
my friend is gone, but still she protects me,
offering me her blood-red paint,
with which i color myself crimson
to hide from the shadow entering the room.
a hand rests on my shoulder,
and i expect to see the last pair of eyes i ever will,
but the room is ablaze with flashing blue and red,
and help has finally arrived.
—
i’m safe in my bed today,
everything now behind me
in the distant past.
my dreams at night are filled with
my new school and friends
and the ringing of bluebells,
and falling in love
and the ringing of bluebells,
and starting my career
and the ringing of bluebells,
and playing with my grandchildren,
and the ringing and ringing and ringing…
of bluebells.
and every time i pick up a newspaper,
i hear the sharp staccatos on the front page—
bang! bang! bang!
one, two, three, four,
five, six, seven, eight,
nine, ten, eleven, twelve,
and again and again and again,
and nothing ever changes.
because the people with the power
are colorblind to crimson,
impervious to the echoes
of the ringing of bluebells.
i will never understand
why.
The Roar 