Voices

• Ashleigh Birch, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2014

The young man strides along a corridor, heavy boots falling with echoing, rhythmic thuds. His small frame is covered with a long overcoat and a balaclava. He trails a gloved hand absentmindedly along the slime coloured wall. He knows this school and he didn't want to come back.
He remembers standing in a corner, watching his first grade classmates play some stupid game. Did he want to join in? No. Instead he fought the overwhelming urge to run away from this place. He fights that urge now too.
“Keep walking.”
The man obediently resumes striding down the corridor. “I don’t want to do this,” he mutters half-halfheartedly as he approaches a door.
“Yes you do. Count to three, then open the door and tell them all to put their hands up. Be confident.”
The man feels anything but confident. One. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck. Two. He tries to swallow but the lump in his throat won’t budge. Three. He can’t breathe.
“Now open the door.”
Row upon row of empty desks greets him- the students aren't here. Waves of relief and disappointment hit him simultaneously. The teacher is writing on the board. When she sees him, she drops the chalk onto the tiled floor. It smashes into little pieces.
“P-p-put your hands in the air,” the man says, almost dropping the gun.
She doesn't move.
“Say it again. Don’t stutter this time.”
A confused expression settles on the teacher’s motherly face.
“P-p-p-put your h-h-hands i-in the air.”
“Sam?” the teacher asks, stepping forward as the look of confusion dissolves.
He waves the gun in her general direction and she freezes.
“Shoot the bitch.”
The man squeezes the trigger gently and the gun responds with an unexpectedly loud ‘bang’, but his hands shake so badly that he misses by several meters.
“I said shoot her!”
“No,” the man says loudly, startling the already frightened teacher.
A dull thud and the floor gets closer to his face. He doesn't remember falling to his knees.
“How typical of you- not even following a simple instruction. You useless, worthless waste of space.”
“Shut up!”
“Don’t hide the truth. Everyone else can already see it. Why don’t you just drop down dead?”
The man turns the gun towards himself. The cold metal of the barrel kisses his temple.
“Do it then. You won’t have the willpower. Weakling.”
The teacher looks straight at him, horror painted onto her face.
“Count to three…”
But the man doesn't need to.
The trigger clicks enticingly as he squeezes it, and this time his hands don’t shake. The resulting bang fills his ears, bouncing around inside his head, making his skull vibrate. He crumples to the floor.
Silence. Deep and thick and black. Devoid of pestering, whining, mocking voices. Devoid of pretty much everything. He falls gratefully into its welcoming arms and buries himself in its warm embrace. It as relieving as sinking into bed at the end of a long day.
So he falls asleep.