Finding Faith
I don't remember hearing the first shots as they were fired. But I do remember that my body was slammed forcefully down to the rough concrete as pandemonium broke out. At first, I thought it was one of the Secret Service agents taking me down. Then I remembered that I had wandered a little distance away while the President worked the crowd. And I was face up. The Secret Service agents would have come at me from behind.
I must have reacted myself, hurling myself to the ground so hard I was sure I would have bruises to show for it. The shrieks and sirens were some distance away and I hoped that the President or any of the staff hadn't been hit. I hoped that no one in the crowd had been hurt. Hopefully the gunmen didn't know how to aim. Hopefully their sights were broken. I knew that it was unlikely, but there was always hope.
There was something wet beneath me and I hoped it wouldn't ruin my new suit. It was a new suit even though no one had noticed. Not even Donna had noticed because it looks like every other suit I own. But it was a new suit, the first that I had had for a while and I had picked it out myself, without help from anyone. Even if Donna didn't notice, it was still a new suit.
I went to push myself up now that the shooting had stopped, wanting to hurry back to the others to make sure everything was alright. But my body didn't seem to want to respond to the commands my brain was issuing. It took three tries before I got my hands beneath me. But they slipped on the warm sticky liquid that I was lying in. Some kid must have spilt their drink before the area was roped off and secured. So I brought my hands up to wipe them on my shirt; it was an old shirt.
They were red. They were coated in something so red that it reminded me of the candy apples my father used to buy for me at the fair when I was a kid. My hands were covered in blood. It took me another second to realise that it was my blood that they were covered in. A tight feeling had closed around my chest. I thought it was panic and took a deep breath to try and calm myself.
I couldn't. I couldn't take the deep breath that should have calmed me. It was as though a band of white-hot steel had wrapped itself around my lungs. Panic, I reassured myself, only caused more trouble. Yet, unable to take that deep breath to calm myself, I was teetering on the brink of that dangerous panic. But at the same time I was unbelievably calm. It was almost as though I were merely watching it happen to someone else.
But when I tried to wipe my hands, they only found more blood. It was seeping from a hole that my wandering hands managed to find through the ocean of liquid that had formed on my chest. I pressed my hands to it. That was the only thing I could remember from the first aid course I had taken in university; you're supposed to apply pressure to a wound.
It couldn't have been more than a minute later when I heard another scream and saw Toby hurtling toward me, tearing his suit jacket off as he came. He all but threw himself on top of me, crushing his suit jacket against my chest. It felt as though he were lying on top of me and it became even more impossible to breathe, not that it had been easy before.
He was talking to me, telling me to stay calm. But he sounded more panicked that I was. He was running off at the mouth, sounding as incoherent as I had ever heard Toby sound. So I knew Toby was panicked. And Toby is never panicked.
I might have read something into it at the time, but I was too busy passing out. And by the time I woke up, it was too late to consider how easily bullets tear through flesh and panic even Toby. But I had plenty of time to do it later in flashback after flashback.
The first three or four times that it happened, I didn't realise one was coming until it was upon me and I felt the hard concrete impact my body as I was hurled backwards by the bullets. That band of steel would tighten around my chest and it would become impossible to breathe. Sweat would bead on my forehead and would run in rivers down my back, soaking my shirt as surely as if it were the blood that had poured from my body as I lay on the sidewalk.
I thought that it would get better. After the fire, the flashbacks had gone away after a few months. The nightmares had never really gone away, but at least I could deal with the hours that I was awake. And the nightmares had receded in frequency. But this time, the episodes had just kept getting worse. And the nightmares were worse. They would begin with the fire, the same one that I had had since I was a child, and then they would change to Rosslyn. I would be on the ground, trying desperately to crawl toward the burning house as blood poured from my body and people screamed around me. I couldn't save them any more than I could save myself. I couldn't save my family as they were trapped in the burning building. And I couldn't save my friends as they lay beside me, blood seeping from their bodies as bullets tore through their flesh.
In the flashbacks at least I was alone, if that could be counted as a blessing. I was alone and no one could reach me. No one was there and I was alone, bleeding to death. My hands would sometimes rise unconsciously to my chest in an effort to stem the bleeding. And I had more than enough time to ponder how easily bullets could tear through flesh and panic anyone, even Toby.
I don't remember hearing the first shots as they were fired. But I do remember that my body was slammed forcefully down to the rough concrete as pandemonium broke out. At first, I thought it was one of the Secret Service agents taking me down. Then I remembered that I had wandered a little distance away while the President worked the crowd. And I was face up. The Secret Service agents would have come at me from behind.
I must have reacted myself, hurling myself to the ground so hard I was sure I would have bruises to show for it. The shrieks and sirens were some distance away and I hoped that the President or any of the staff hadn't been hit. I hoped that no one in the crowd had been hurt. Hopefully the gunmen didn't know how to aim. Hopefully their sights were broken. I knew that it was unlikely, but there was always hope.
There was something wet beneath me and I hoped it wouldn't ruin my new suit. It was a new suit even though no one had noticed. Not even Donna had noticed because it looks like every other suit I own. But it was a new suit, the first that I had had for a while and I had picked it out myself, without help from anyone. Even if Donna didn't notice, it was still a new suit.
I went to push myself up now that the shooting had stopped, wanting to hurry back to the others to make sure everything was alright. But my body didn't seem to want to respond to the commands my brain was issuing. It took three tries before I got my hands beneath me. But they slipped on the warm sticky liquid that I was lying in. Some kid must have spilt their drink before the area was roped off and secured. So I brought my hands up to wipe them on my shirt; it was an old shirt.
They were red. They were coated in something so red that it reminded me of the candy apples my father used to buy for me at the fair when I was a kid. My hands were covered in blood. It took me another second to realise that it was my blood that they were covered in. A tight feeling had closed around my chest. I thought it was panic and took a deep breath to try and calm myself.
I couldn't. I couldn't take the deep breath that should have calmed me. It was as though a band of white-hot steel had wrapped itself around my lungs. Panic, I reassured myself, only caused more trouble. Yet, unable to take that deep breath to calm myself, I was teetering on the brink of that dangerous panic. But at the same time I was unbelievably calm. It was almost as though I were merely watching it happen to someone else.
But when I tried to wipe my hands, they only found more blood. It was seeping from a hole that my wandering hands managed to find through the ocean of liquid that had formed on my chest. I pressed my hands to it. That was the only thing I could remember from the first aid course I had taken in university; you're supposed to apply pressure to a wound.
It couldn't have been more than a minute later when I heard another scream and saw Toby hurtling toward me, tearing his suit jacket off as he came. He all but threw himself on top of me, crushing his suit jacket against my chest. It felt as though he were lying on top of me and it became even more impossible to breathe, not that it had been easy before.
He was talking to me, telling me to stay calm. But he sounded more panicked that I was. He was running off at the mouth, sounding as incoherent as I had ever heard Toby sound. So I knew Toby was panicked. And Toby is never panicked.
I might have read something into it at the time, but I was too busy passing out. And by the time I woke up, it was too late to consider how easily bullets tear through flesh and panic even Toby. But I had plenty of time to do it later in flashback after flashback.
The first three or four times that it happened, I didn't realise one was coming until it was upon me and I felt the hard concrete impact my body as I was hurled backwards by the bullets. That band of steel would tighten around my chest and it would become impossible to breathe. Sweat would bead on my forehead and would run in rivers down my back, soaking my shirt as surely as if it were the blood that had poured from my body as I lay on the sidewalk.
I thought that it would get better. After the fire, the flashbacks had gone away after a few months. The nightmares had never really gone away, but at least I could deal with the hours that I was awake. And the nightmares had receded in frequency. But this time, the episodes had just kept getting worse. And the nightmares were worse. They would begin with the fire, the same one that I had had since I was a child, and then they would change to Rosslyn. I would be on the ground, trying desperately to crawl toward the burning house as blood poured from my body and people screamed around me. I couldn't save them any more than I could save myself. I couldn't save my family as they were trapped in the burning building. And I couldn't save my friends as they lay beside me, blood seeping from their bodies as bullets tore through their flesh.
In the flashbacks at least I was alone, if that could be counted as a blessing. I was alone and no one could reach me. No one was there and I was alone, bleeding to death. My hands would sometimes rise unconsciously to my chest in an effort to stem the bleeding. And I had more than enough time to ponder how easily bullets could tear through flesh and panic anyone, even Toby.