3.4 Creative Writing
Madi Gainsford

I am the first. First of nine. Nine to die. The gun took control of me, I couldn’t look away from it. A round black hole fascinated me, maybe I already knew that it would take me to the stars. My heart did not begin to race the seconds before it hit, I knew it was coming. I could not react further, so I gave him what he wanted. I did nothing. I let the gun touch me, the small missile breaking into my heart. Quite beautiful really. As it broke in it was like a personal love letter, idiosyncratic. Slowly it made it out the otherside. My body releasing adrenaline like I had never felt before. I couldn’t help it. I felt addicted, an obsessed crush. Like I said I let the gun touch me. It has forever left its mark on me. 

My name is Chloe Williams, 17 and I attended Grey Stone High, now the 9th most famous school shooting.     

They place it. Casually. But hesitant, as though it would just explode its force. It has that sort of power, that even they cannot handle it properly. The two cops have at least managed to put it in a plastic zip lock “EVIDENCE” bag. I watch from above, and I see Spencers face confused by the placement of the gun on the table. Although the plastic is a filter from Spencer seeing the gun we both can remember it. How the cold burned the sweat on his hand, how my blood trickled through the laced rubber grip, draining onto the floor, forever embellishing a mark of death on its handle, and its smell like a sparkler spelling out “Kill” in the dark night.
I haven’t yet worked out if this is a good cop, bad cop scene from a movie. All I understand is that the longer their eyes pierce Spencer’s skin, he will still be sitting in the exact same place. The gun on the table.

From my dark corner I watch, I am unseen seen but I know that Spencer can feel my presence, he is alone but not lonely. The first cop starts with simple questions. The tone dead in his voice with each answer. Each yes or no lies on the table lifeless. No emotion. Spencer is internalising the questions, my presence and the gun that pleads for his attention in front of him. The gun speaks to him.

“I was there. Last summer. I know what happened.”
His face clenches as it repeats in his head. Frustration and anger boil inside. More questions. It looks like Spencer is going to burst. I turn my attention away from Spencer. By what method can I help. 

Through the other room, more questions are being thrown from either side of the table. The area is much more relaxed. Charlie is a victim. His hands are not restrained and the cops are not devouring him with their eyes like a delicious meal. Charlie just remains. Adhesive on his back, sticking his spine to the throne. He knows he is in no trouble.

Charlie is unassuming. Most people know him for wit and humour. I remember the day I met Charlie. His smile too big for his face, a little smug I guess cause he just got in trouble for a prank. I liked to laugh so it was easy to be friends with him. He is here tonight at school. Finally got him in a suit and tie with Spencer. It is supposed to be a night to remember.  

As Charlie sits, a tear jerked from his eye rolls over his plump left cheek. Such a subtle tear doesn’t really show his fear of the gun that night. It is like observing an actor, it looks real but doesn’t feel real. All the cops want is a statement from each of the victims but Charlie is extra special he knows the accused as a friend. My two best friends, questioned by the police about my exit from this world along with eight others. Charlie lets loose as he is free to go.
“This is some ballsed up shit going on officers, I wish I had some explanation for Spencer”

Oddly, he is smug. But this is hidden as he looks for the doorway out. 

As Charlie touches the handle another cop opens the door. Their eyes meet. They have met before. She asks the other cops if she can take Charlie to sign some paperwork. As the door closes, she abruptly grabs Charlies arm and pulls him into another office. A moment of stillness is endured as they both just stare through each other. The cop slowly raises her gun to Charlies eye level. I have been there before. The difference, Charlie is in control of the situation. He is fearless. He then lays one hand on her gun, lowering it away from his face in one effortless movement. She does not try to wrestle with him. The cop then hands over a wad of cash and a bag. There are no lip movements involved. What has given Charlie such power?    

I may talk like Chloe, I may look like Chloe, but I am no longer Chloe. I am a dead girl. The gun that perforated my skeleton has left me stuck between heaven and hell. I now see, hear and know things. Things that may frighten you. Which has destined me to recapitulate the crisis of Greystone High.