As Timothy stirred cereal around in his bowl pretending to eat, his mother raced in and out of the sterile kitchen packing his bag for middle school.
“Its time to go honey,” she said while whisking away his uneaten breakfast. “The bus is almost here!”
Timothy slouched out of his chair and donned the miniature backpack thrust upon him. In a moment he was out of the kitchen, indistinguishable from countless others, being steered by his mother out the back door and towards the bus stop. The morning air was crisp and chill and Timothy could see his breath slightly against the darker background of the neighborhood. His mother began frisking him over, making sure he had his mittens and school supplies. She suddenly stopped with a look of alarm on her face.
“Oh my God, I forgot! Wait right here and tell the bus to wait if it comes, I will be right back!”
Timothy’s mother rushed away back towards the house and disappeared inside. Timothy stood on the grey sidewalk, a tiny figure bundled up and still. He heard the distant rumbling of a great engine and soon could see the large yellow school bus approaching around the curve of his suburban street. An instant later he heard the front door open and his mother emerged carrying a small brown object. She rushed to him as the bus pulled to a stop, its brakes hissing their annoyance at the delay.
“You almost forgot this again,” his mother gasped, thrusting the case into his arms.
It was a holster made of fine brown leather. Barely visible from one end was the butt of a pug-nosed revolver. The way in which the leather seemed to cradle the gun made it look dainty to an observer but to Timothy it was heavy and cold. He stared at it blankly. The bus doors opened and the kind-hearted driver called out something Timothy didn’t hear.
“I remember when I first started I would forget mine all the time,” said the woman driver again, louder this time.
Timothy looked up at her, his attention returning. She smiled a big wide smile which made her look kind and loving and slightly like a toad.
“You remember eventually.”
She patted her waist on which was clipped a massive pistol. After being kissed repeatedly by his mother Timothy got on the bus and was soon on his way to school.
As the bus drove off, Timothy sat down at a completely free row of seats and moved to sit at the window. He watched the small identical houses go past; their lawns covered in wet Fall leaves. After a few stops, another boy who had sat next to Timothy on the bus before, got on. He moved slowly down the bus, judging where the stigmas of childhood society would permit him to sit free from scorn or threat. Finally he sat, once again, next to Timothy. The bus lurched onwards. They had exchanged words in the past, even compared guns once. The other boy, Michael, had a Beretta. It was lightweight and his parents thought it best for him so he could wear it comfortably during Sports class.
Timothy began to think about Michael’s gun and he drifted into one of his commonplace daydreams. He remembered hearing there was still debate amongst law makers whether or not personal defense arms should be worn in classes such as sports. Only until recently firearms were permitted to be removed during what the government called, the “S” times: Sleep, Sports, Sex and Sickness. But now, with newer safety methods, it was required to wear them during “permitting non-water” sports. Timothy was drawn back to his surroundings for a moment as he watched his breath fog the glass of the window. Promptly, Timothy’s inattention caught up and he started recalling the speech given by the man who came to visit the school. He was from some government program Timothy couldn’t remember the name of. The man spoke about gun control and how it was law that everyone capable carried a personal defense arm. Timothy remembered he kept saying studies showed crime went down dramatically if “we all bear arms.”
As the school bus stopped at a light Timothy focused again on his breath on the window and behind it he could see the blurred red illumination of the traffic light. The color then changed to green and it reminded him about the “Red/Green” program. Every year the school had a big assembly where the teachers talked about it. It was in case something should go wrong at the school or someone had to fire their gun. An alarm would sound and everyone had to stay in their classroom and lock the doors. If there was anything wrong in the room you should slide a red piece of paper under the door out into the hall. If everything was alright, then you slid out a green piece of paper. Timothy remembered he had once asked a question at the end of the talk. He had asked what happened before everyone carried a gun. The man told him, “Terrible, terrible things.”
The bus soon came to a stop outside the school. Children screamed and giggled as they got off the bus. Timothy waited for a gap in the line and then got out. The driver smiled at him again and wished him well. He nodded a thank you and stepped out. Soon he was sitting in his classroom at his desk, his gun slung around his waist. The bell rang and class began. His teacher was a nice older lady. She was plump faced and wore think black rimmed glasses. She took attendance by scanning the room and asking if anyone knew where so-and-so was. Before long, class was started and the blackboard was covered in math. Timothy watched with glazed eyes. In truth, he often didn’t pay attention, but not because he was lazy or slow. Timothy was exceptionally smart. Classes often bored him. He liked to think about other things, like why did the pilgrim’s hats have buckles on them, or why is there a light in the refrigerator and not in the freezer?
Then there was screaming, confusion, tables falling over and a loud bang. The teacher was franticly running across the room shrieking, even more children were screaming and jumping out of their seats. Timothy was ripped from his thoughts. He had no idea what had just happened or what was going on now. He saw tables, the teacher kneeling, blood, and another adolescent with his gun drawn. The teacher reached out for the child and in an instant he fired. The teacher crumpled to the floor. Other children had their guns out; the room was filled with earsplitting thuds over and over again. Timothy watched, shocked for an instant, as students fell and blood spattered against the windows like smashed fruit. The room was filled with so much noise he couldn’t hear anything. The girl in front of him was desperately trying to take her gun out of the holster when her neck exploded. Blood and flesh misted the air and splattered over Timothy. Her scream turned into a gurgling. A bullet ripped through one of the great windows covered with gun safety posters causing it to shatter, sending glass falling like a beautiful cascade down on the classroom.
Timothy was forced backwards off his chair. He hit the floor hard and his desk came crashing down on top of him. Someone had knocked him over as they fell. All Timothy could see was the ceiling and the top of his table. He franticly pushed it off, smearing the bloody mist on it like a finger painting. He saw a boy run past towards the closed door but he tripped or was grabbed or shot, Timothy didn’t know which, but Timothy saw him fall. The alarm was sounding now, its wailing filling the already chaotic air. Timothy awkwardly pulled his gun from his holster. It was suddenly warm and light. The room was more still now but still ear-splittingly loud. Timothy pointed his gun at the closest thing moving and without a second thought pulled the trigger.
He had expected the sound, but still his eyes closed tight instinctively, and the recoil rocked his arm. He stayed lying down, firing at anything and everything until finally his gun wouldn’t fire any more. He laid crying and trembling on the floor of a now motionless room. He gripped his gun tightly and sobbed. He twitched suddenly and uncontrollably. He crawled up against a cupboard and looked at the room. It was horrid. He quickly looked away to the wall but even that was ghastly. He didn’t know what to do. He heard strange sounds above the alarm coming from other classrooms close by. He dropped his gun to the floor.
Slowly he found himself doing the only thing he thought he should. He moved towards the teacher’s desk, on which were laying two colored pieces of paper. He looked only at the paper, his eyes so blurred by tears it seemed the paper was moving like a river.
He took the red piece tightly in his hands and moved towards the closed door.
Out in the hallway it was still and clean. Neat rows of lockers covered the walls broken only by symmetrical gaps for classroom doors. A few backpacks and pencils lay on the ground. The wall at the far end was covered with large handmade posters advertising spirit week and other activities. A large flat screen mounted in the corner displayed a welcome sign which periodically switched to pictures and school information. Even the blaring alarm itself seemed in place with its dependable rhythm and pitch. Suddenly a red piece of paper spun excitedly out from under a door and into the hallway, disturbing the calm. It flipped once over itself, caught on the pristine air it disturbed when shoved out from under the door. It floated down onto the polished floor peacefully and settled. The image on the flat screen TV changed to show a small middle school baseball team smiling down on the hall. The rest of the hall was still. The calmness was disturbed only occasionally by other little pieces of paper being slid out into the hallway. All of them were red.
