Creative Corner: “Trigger Warning”

I fucking hate people. I hate each and every person in this room. In this school. In this goddamn world.

I hate dad more than anyone. When Dr. Glen told me he and I should work on our relationship, I told her she should fuck off. She doesn’t know that prick beats his wife. Beats me. Hard fists, one after another, to the jaw, to the gut, to the side of the head. He has power, that man. He’s deserving of our fear.

Mom’s a fucking coward. She takes it. And then she watches me take it. Their only child’s a fuckup anyway. After all the long nights lying on that dirty kitchen floor, I’m so fucking tired of feeling weak. I stayed home sick for five days with a black eye and busted lip, skipped therapy at mom’s demand. Then finally I went back to classes just to hear the same shit I hear at home.

I’m worthless. I’m a pussy.

Well not if I have control. Dad’s fucking 5’5, but his anger shakes the house. One step in my direction, and he’s a fucking giant. I want to feel what he feels. Power. I want to use it. I want to see chaos erupt around me. What would the others do? Shrink in terror? I want to be on the other side of that.

Today’s the day. I’m finally gonna show ‘em what this little guy’s made of. They think they can fuck around with me? They think I’ll stand there and take it like the “fucking pussy” they think I am? Let’s see how they take this.

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That mixer last night fucked me up. I don’t remember which sorority girl I took back with me, but I’m hoping it’s not that gremlin looking bitch. Man, I’ll never live that shit down. My brothers will roast me ‘til I graduate. I’m just glad she left before I woke up. Nothing worse than facing your one-night-stand in the morning.

Shit, I don’t know how I made it this early. I would’ve picked all afternoon classes if I could have. Or maybe a cooking class. I hear all the chicks take it. Even the teacher’s a babe. Blonde hair. Nice ass. Knows her place in the kitchen. I wouldn’t mind waking up to her every morning, shit.

But instead I gotta listen to Mr. Kent lecture about comma placement. It’d be much more bearable if English majors were hot. But most of them are either nerdy or just fucking weird, man.

Speaking of…here comes Wade. Nice black hoodie, faggot. Did mommy buy it for you at Old Navy? This dude would be hazed to shit if he pledged for Sigma. Kid looks like a goth Little Red Riding Hood—only shorter.

“Wade, how tall are you?” Ha. I had to. Kid can’t be more than 5’4.

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Well that was ill-mannered. Must you pick on someone smaller to feel bigger? Typical fraternity boy.

I’m in no mood for this class today. As much as I enjoy heated debates regarding the Oxford comma…I am too excited to see Jake.

It’s been over six months. Six months of barely hearing his voice. Six months without an efficient amount of sleep. Six months of worrying whether or not he’s even alive. Yet, individuals like Jason have the nerve to claim they’re tough. Picking on someone is not tough. Try risking your life for your country, not knowing when you’re going to be shot at, or if your friends will die in an explosion that day. That is tough.

 God, I cannot wait to see Jake. I hope he likes my “WELCOME HOME” poster with pictures of us holding hands in high school, fishing in Myrtle Beach, and kissing in New York when he proposed. I cannot believe I’m getting married this weekend. It is absolutely surreal. My high school sweetheart.

It has been beyond difficult with him so far away. I have been strong for too long, making do with just our memories. I haven’t allowed myself excitement until this very moment. Fear is strong.

God, I’ve missed his embrace and corny jokes and adventurous soul. Am I smiling? This is embarrassing. I’m giddily grinning in the middle of my 8a.m. class. This is what he does to me! Always the reason for my smile, even when he isn’t with me in person, even when I am exhausted and coffee-deprived. I am sure I’ll wake up when I leave class to see him. It’ll be just like the day we met—same butterflies, nervous laughs, awkward hugs. Only better. Because this time, I won’t have to let go.

I cannot wait to see him. I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life with—

Oh my God. Is that a gun?

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“Wade, it’s okay. It’s okay, you can talk to me. We can figure this out, okay? Wade, please put the gun down. Please think for a few moments. We can talk about this. I’ve been there. We all struggle with something. We can talk. I’m here for you. You are safe. You are going to be okay. Just please, put the gun on the floor, Wade…”

I have to stop him. I can’t let him shoot one of my students. I can’t let him shoot me. What would happen to Donna and the baby? I can’t leave my family. I can’t.

In my few years of teaching, I never believed I would witness a school shooter. I always thought about it. I see it enough on the news. But I wasn’t prepared for this shit. I don’t know how to handle it. I’m no therapist.

“Wade, you don’t have to do this. You know that. You can put that gun down, and we can work things out together. You are not alone, Wade. Please just think for a minute.”

These poor kids are shaking. Their fear is breaking my heart. I want to help them. It is my job to protect them! I can’t fail them. I gotta do something.

“Wade…please.”

I’m begging. What the fuck else can I do? I could try and grab the gun, but who knows if he’ll just start firing. I don’t know. I’m desperate. I’m not even much older than these kids. I can’t let them die. They have parents. Siblings. Friends. Lovers.

I can’t leave Donna and the baby alone. I can’t do that. What would happen to them? I can’t let that happen. God, if you’re there, please…help me.

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I can’t breathe. I need to leave. I have to go. I can’t stay in this room. Oh my God, I can’t breathe. I can’t die. Not today. I have to see Jake. I am supposed to marry the love of my life this weekend. I am supposed to meet him after this very class. I am supposed to live happily ever after. I can’t die. I don’t wanna die. I need to leave.

I’m doing it. Just a few more steps. I need to get out. I can’t die.

Please, God, don’t let me—

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I should be the one dead. Not her.

She was smart. She had a future. She’s married, or engaged, or whatever—I saw her ring when I was checking her out the first day of class. Fuck. She’s dead because of me.

I did this. I caused this. I bullied the shit out of this kid. He had to fucking kill this innocent girl. He had to kill himself. Because of me. Because I am a fucking asshole. I am the one who triggered this whole thing.

Oh my God, what did I do…? It’s all my fault.

• creative writing
• short story