Week Thirteen
Between Everything and Nothing
It was my Rolling Stones shirt that gave Emily a reason to talk to me. We were walking past each other just after fourth period when she pointed at the giant illustrated lips on my chest and said without an ounce of irony, "Nice shirt."
This first interaction lead to debates about who was the better guitarist, Clapton or Richards, during lunch, and long discussions about the best albums of the year while we sat on the hood of my dad's car in the parking lot after school.
The sun would begin to set, and I'd nervously try to think of another question to ask her, in the chance her answer might mean I'd get to spend a few more seconds with her. Before I went to sleep each night, I'd look at the short texts she'd sent me throughout the day, and mull over what she said, and if I could derive some sort of secret girl code out of them.
"You have to listen to Sam Cooke" could easily mean she wanted to date me. "Pretty sure I just failed that test" could be interpreted as her broadcasting her undying love for me. But because I'd never had a girlfriend before, I didn't know how to initiate that conversation with Emily. I just knew that whatever this was, I wanted more of it, more of her.
---
I'd seen him a dozen or so times, but I'd never spoken to him. I wasn't even entirely sure of his name. But I knew he seemed like the kind of guy who'd probably have some deep interests. An encyclopedic knowledge of foreign films, or a fascination with geography. His eyes were so intense and full of study that it seemed like he was always working things out. Like he'd seen the man behind the curtain and we were just too blind to see.
He existed in the shadows, a lack of confidence, or energy, or both, kept him from the center of things. Like most of the kids in my high school, when the final bell rang, and we left the building, he'd cease to be.
I'd never had anything against him; I just felt like we swam in different channels. He did his thing and I did mine. It was the rule of the high school jungle. And it was through no fault of either of ours that we stayed in our separate animal kingdoms. It was just the way the cosmic architecture predetermined how we existed.
---
When a bullet enters the human body, it first punctures the skin, snapping it and pulling some of it forward along its trajectory. Next, it drags the muscles, veins, and arteries, pulling them, twisting them, and turning them to dust. It snaps bones, it decimates organs, and if it passes through the body, it does all of this twice; the second time in reverse. Behind the bullet exists a vacuum that's a whirl of chaos. Flesh, bone, and blood swirl together in a mixture that's both horribly cold and frighteningly hot.
The police will explain how the guy whose name I don't remember sprayed his assault rifle in an upward movement as he rushed into my classroom. The force of the gun firing pulled it upwards. I was hit twice and immediately fell back in my chair. With a collapsed left lung, I gasped for air and felt my throat fill up with blood. Through the shots, I heard glass breaking, people screaming, and doors slamming. Someone pulled the fire alarm. I couldn't move, I could barely breathe, and I felt something warm growing under my back.
Staring up at the perforated ceiling of my classroom, all the sound seemed to fade away. The confusion aligned in a straight line. My fractured breathing drifted into nothing. Time slowed and I sat between everything and nothing. Pictures of me riding my first bike, eating my first ice cream cone, and smiling with my family fell like falling Polaroids in front of my eyes. And the last time my synapses fired, they carried one single thought: I hoped Emily was ok.
---
I would have liked to see Emily one last time. To tell her everything I felt. To look into her eyes and see her soul staring back at me. To thank her for pointing at my shirt. For choosing to spend this short time on the planet with me.
But as time goes on, I fear I'll forget pieces of Emily. The way the corner of her lips - right where they met her cheeks - formed a perfect angle. The way she took a deep breath right before launching into a sentence she knew would be long and detailed. How she could quote lyrics that were 50 years old, but couldn't quite memorize the steps for cell mitosis. How her smile meant the world to me.
Emily would go on. She'd take more breaths. My name would fade from the news footage and the papers, and it hurt to think that, for Emily, I'd one day be "this guy she knew." And after that, the only thing that will be left of me is a number. A statistic.
