CW: Gun violence on a school campus in a dream; some light gore
A Final Scene
Everything rolls like fragmented pieces of film.
Vivid, but intangible. The sky is weaved by a million dragonfly wings as it marks the pulsing boundaries of a delicate dreamscape.
Thump, thump, thump. Is that the ticking of a clock? Students run after one another on the glassy, grassy field. Sheets of clouds slowly wrap around the sun. A smell of rubber burns in the distance. Something might happen in the very next s—
WHAM!
A shining SUV lands in the middle of the soccer field, its windows heavily tinted to mask the driver and passengers inside. School security rushes behind the intruding vehicle with beads of sweat rolling off their gleaming foreheads. They move with a mechanical quality; their limbs display perfect 90-degree angles, and they seem to linger in each pose a second longer than what is natural, as if their joints are made of rusted metal. The security guards shout indistinguishable syllables that roar thunder, but the car inches forward like a disobedient child testing his mother’s limits. Everyone pauses to witness the unusual sight.
The atmosphere is the placid surface of a lake, then click — a tidal wave crashes. Blood, screams, running out of air. I whirl around in a fog.
A student in the car’s path: run over.
I sprint to the nearest dorm with my friend, my heart poised at the edge of my throat. The sound of its beating fuses with the soft hum of an air conditioner nearby, echoing in my eardrums like a metronome increasing in tempo. I look out the window—two men step out of the SUV. They point their rifles toward shaking students, fingers on triggers.
My friend rushes outside because she has left her bag at the football field. I try to dissuade her,but she insists. I have no choice but to follow.
We speed past a blurry, bloody mess next to the car. I feel my bones melt like butter in the microwave. My friend realizes that her bag is, in fact, on her shoulders.
An armed man stands in our way.
This will be the moment I say goodbye.
I start shooting my rifle. My friends and I fire away, and the gunman does the same. The bullets travel slowly, so slowly that I can see them: tiny domes that reflect their surroundings with a metallic kiss. They would be beautiful if they didn't take lives. I catch the reflection of my face on a bullet’s glossy surface.
After several rounds of firing, neither side has managed to strike a single patch of cloth, let alone flesh. I pull the trigger again, only to hear an empty click that coincides with the heavy thump of my heart. Dropping my gun in resignation, I await final judgment.
A bullet flies toward my heart. Somewhere in the dark, closed eyelids flutter in anticipation of incoming pain.
But I don’t dodge it. It doesn’t hurt at all.
The metronome falls asleep.
Everything cracks like glass as red and blue hues seep through the edges of my perception. With a smile, I watch the police take the intruders down. My red shirt is stained white—or the other way around—but my mind is too blank to tell.