Rick may as well have shot me, because every second of every day after the shooting, I felt like a ghost. I watched someone die. Someone who had reached out to me for help. For friendship. And what had I done? I threw a big fuck-you right in his face. Then I watched him die.
The despair in his face, the broken heart in his eyes that I saw as he stared across the barrel of the gun pointed right at my skull… I couldn't believe what I'd done to him. I really thought I was going to die, in that ice cold moment of terror. And then my heart sank when I realized, maybe I deserved to die.
It was all my fault. I started it. I lit the fire of senseless hate that burned Degrassi to the ground. The orange ribbons. The campaign. All my fucking shallow, pathetic attempts to win Paige over. Honestly, what had I become?
I didn't even know him. Rick had nothing to do with me, and I ruined his life just to elevate my own status. I made him a villain just so I could be a hero. Before my ribbons, most people didn't even know who Rick was. If it weren't for my campaign, maybe the bullying never would have started. Maybe Rick really could have had a chance to make amends and start over. We'll never know. I was a snobby bitch and I crushed him before he ever had a chance.
Everyone pitied me. A carpet of egg shells followed me everywhere I went. Their eyes on me made me sick. Their whispers. Poor Emma. The shooting fucked her up so badly she sucked Jay Hogart's cock. Doesn't get much lower than that. No one knew what I knew. No one blamed me. I was innocent Emma Nelson to them. A victim. A social martyr.
No, it was Spinner that they blamed. He was an easy target. Paint and feathers. Framing Jimmy. No one felt sorry for Spinner. And in the aftermath of a tragedy, you need someone to blame. When something bad happens, you need a bad guy, and since Rick was dead, Spinner was fair game.
I would watch him sometimes, as I sat in the back booth of the Dot sipping coffee by myself. His face was dead and lost as he carried plates to tables, took money from hands and placed it in the cash register. He was a social exile. Teased and ridiculed just like Rick used to be. Poetic justice. I remember wondering, more than once, if Spinner also wished he'd died.
In a sick way, I sometimes envied him. I wanted to know what it felt like to be abandoned. To be hated. To be all alone. I felt like I deserved it. It seemed like a more honest existence. Because while Spinner may have pulled the metaphorical trigger, what no one ever talks about is how I loaded and cocked the gun.