One Month After Massacre

There was something gut-wrenching about having to watch the memorial held at Lincoln Heights from my cell phone screen in the middle of a courthouse.

I had spent the last three days sitting through mental preparation with my newest psychologist. It was the third in a month, and with how our last session went, I was sure I'd be moving on to my fourth any given second. He's spent over an hour trying to pry me open and get me to speak about the hurricane of emotions I was sure to be feeling this morning.

He was as unsuccessful as he was correct about my emotions. The second Mom had touched her hand to my shoulder this morning, I'd retreated into myself. Today was the day I'd been dreading for weeks; the day I'd silently hoped I wouldn't have to be involved in. I knew that this wouldn't just be a day and it'd all be over and done; that I wouldn't have to sit in a room with the sick murderer that wore my brothers face.

I could feel the outer edges of my fingertips beginning to numb as my father rested his hand on the small of my back and led me into the courtroom. The benches had filled quickly, leaving only a small space at the end of the first row on the right. Though he didn't say a word, I could feel my father growing tense under all the intense stares, and moments later, he quickened his pace so he was seated. Mom had been trailing behind but was a blubbering mess. The second she'd stepped into the courthouse; all her bearings had been dropped. The tight, professional ponytail was halfway undone, mascara smeared around and under her swollen, puffy red eyes. She'd put on a blouse with a pencil skirt, but sometime on her trek from the bathroom here it'd come undone, and she appeared to have no intention of tucking it back in and making herself presentable.

I had seated myself between my parents when a familiar flash of black flickered into my line of sight and sent my stomach spiraling. Naomi Chao was stalking toward the bench to my left, a certainty in every step. I shouldn't have been surprised to see that she was so alert and ready; four years of debate had prepared her for this.

Only, when she turned to look at us on the benches, all confidence dissipated as if it'd been suctioned right out of her. She opened her mouth just enough to show how bitten and raw they were behind the thick layer of red lipstick, and her brown eyes shone with tears that she blinked vigorously from her eyes as she continued her trek to her seat. Following her heels, I eventually allowed my eyes to drift upward and wished I hadn't.

Hilary Baxter was the sole person who'd been sitting there when we walked in. She'd been bent over rummaging through her bag, so I hadn't been able to see her, but the second Naomi approached, she sat upright and extended a trembling hand to the younger girl.

"Everly." My father leaned into me. "They're about to bring him in."

I pried my eyes from the women and looked to my father, not reassured at all when I saw the horrified look he was trying so desperately to conceal. His large hands were curling and unclenching on his lap, dark eyes scanning the room, legs bouncing with anxiety. He no doubt was about as ready to see my brother as I was.

"All rise."

I rose to my feet shakily, my eyes involuntary darting toward the door the Judge had stepped through, but not even a few feet behind her, was Clark.

A part of me had thoroughly believed that he would be in an orange jumpsuit with his hands cuffed; he sat at the table in a black button up and a pair of slacks, no restraint outside of the two police officers at his flanks. He looked nothing like the boy who'd held me at gunpoint a month ago. His hair had been shaved off, leaving him looking far more like the twin I'd drove a knife into. But it was his face that was the most unnerving. His blue eyes had seemingly sunken into his face, sitting in dark, heavy bags beneath them. His cheeks were sickly thin, so much so his cheekbones were extremely visible and every time he flexed his jaw, it was visible in them.

With his appearance in the courtroom came an eerie, unsettling silence. He didn't seem the least bit affected. In fact, he lifted his head and within seconds his eyes were staring into mine.

I'd spent the better part of this last month seeing them every time I shut my own, but standing here, in the same room, was sending everything in my body into overdrive. I shifted on my feet, ready to rush out of the room and building, my brain was struggling to process all of the emotions scratching the surface, and I wished for nothing more than to disappear.

"Damn, Hope," he said upon seeing me, "you're still alive?"

I would have thought I'd imagined it if it weren't for the sudden gasps and quiet chattering that followed. The remark earned him a hard shove into the chair at the Defendant table by one of the officers, and even from afar, I could hear his attorney scolding him.

At some point in my staring at the back of my brother's buzzed head, the Judge had asked we all sit, and I was forcibly moved back onto the bench by my father.

I could barely comprehend the words that were leaving the Judge's mouth. She was speaking fast, and every word sounded like a foreign language to me. Her eyes seemed to direct themselves at Public Defense rather than Clark, as if he were invisible, or just part of the scenery.

Judge Montez then gazed out into the crowd before her, or possibly into the cameras on her from every angle, before she states, "Members of the Jury, your duty today will be to determine whether the defendant is guilty or not guilty based on only facts and evidence provided in this case. The prosecution must prove that a crime was committed, and that the defendant is the person who committed said crime. However, if you are not satisfied of the defendant's guilt, then reasonable doubt exists, and defendant must be found not guilty. Mr. James, what is today's case?

"The state of Texas Vs. Clark Rodgers."

Judge Montez straightened behind the podium, "Is the prosecution ready?"

There were a few attorneys that stood and confirmed this. Then slowly one of the state attorneys stepped up to their podium and began to speak,

"Your Honor, members of jury, my name is Steven James and my co-council, and I are representing the state of Texas in this case. We intended to prove that on the day of May twenty-eighth, eighteen-year-old Clark Rodgers walked into Lincoln Heights High School in Southern Texas and opened fire on his classmates and school staff. Please find Clark Rodgers guilty of forty-two counts of first-degree murder and fifteen counts of attempted murder. Thank you."

My stomach twisted hearing the words aloud. Though I'd spent a month trying to avoid hearing the sympathy on every news station, hearing them aloud had my back straightening and my eyes shifting from the attorney to Judge Montez.

Dad must have seen a change in my expression because he reached over and rested his hand on top of my mine. But feeling the slight tremble of each finger, I wasn't sure if it was for his comfort or my own.

I watched as an attorney whispered something to Clark before rising, dusting off his blazer and heading for his own podium. He cleared his throat, then glanced down at the screen before him.

"Your Honor, members of jury, my name is Felix Holloway, and my co-council and I are representing Mr. Clark Rodgers in this case. We intend to prove that said actions were a result of underlying mental illness that was not observed previously. Please find Clark Rodgers not guilty of forty-two counts of murder in the first degree and fifteen counts of attempted murder. Thank you."

Though he spoke with professionalism, as the defense attorney closed his file, I could see the disgust in the way his top lip curled just a fraction, before his face was masked entirely and he joined my brother again.

Judge Montez lifted her head up quickly, thick dark hair brushing the outer edges of her cheeks as she looked to the state's attorney once more.

"Prosecution, you may call your first witness."

"I call to the stand Ms. Naomi Chao."

The words filtered through the chaos of thoughts ravaging through my head, and my eyes trailed after the dark-haired Valedictorian as she straightened and made her way across the hardwood and toward the Witness Stand.

"Do you solemnly affirm that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" The Bailif said, peering to her left at Naomi about to take her seat on the stand, right hand raised.

"I do." Though I could barely hear her over the quiet chatter that had started around me, I saw her lips move, and the Judge gestured for her to take a seat to her left.

"Please state your name for the court and spell your last name for record." Judge Montez said as soon as Naomi had seated herself.

The sweet, kind hearted brainiac that had tutored me on various occasions was nowhere to be seen as Naomi pushed her chair in and leaned into the microphone, voice lacking any emotion, as if this was all a script she was reading directly out of a textbook.

"My name is Naomi Chao. Last name is C-h-a-o."

Judge Montez nodded. "Please proceed."

Mr. James stepped out from behind his podium and edged closer to the Witness Stand.

"Ms. Chao, do you remember where you were on the morning of May 28th?"

Naomi shifted anxiously in her seat, but answered, "I was taking my final exam for American Lit in Mr. Peters classroom."

"And this classroom was located on the second floor of the building, correct?"

Naomi averted her gaze to the paper she continued to glide her nails across. "Yes, sir, that's correct."

"Were you aware you and your fellow classmates were under attack at this time?"

"No, sir. We heard the first shot about ten minutes into the test. My classmates laughed it off and assumed it was a textbook dropping. Then three more rang out and the intercom came on." Naomi's voice wavered. "But the moment Principal Wilson spoke, we heard another shot and then a thud and nothing but feedback from the speaker afterward."

Mr. James stared solemnly, "Debra Perry had been shot by Franklin Rodgers at this moment, correct?"

"As far as I understand, that is correct, sir."

"Did you know the Rodger boys?"

Naomi's eyes shot to me, and for a moment it felt as though we were the only two people in the room. No cameras, no people encasing us, just the two of us as it had been in the Library dozens of times. Finally, she managed a, "No, but I was friends with their sister."

"So you'd had interactions with the boys prior to this?"

Naomi looked to Clark and her polite, forced smile twisted into a scowl. "A couple times, yes. But I only saw them in passing."

"Did you find anything unnerving about their behavior?"

Naomi looked to me again. "Clark always had a bit of a temper. He got into a lot of fights. The other brother, Franklin, I didn't know much about. He was quiet, just kind of floated around school unseen."

"A temper. Prior to the shooting, would have ever considered Clark Rodgers dangerous?"

Naomi looked right at Clark as she said, "Yes sir."

He nodded curtly and returned to his podium before asking, "You were very close with two of the victims, correct?"

"Yes, Miles Baxter and Brady Bowers."

The millisecond she said his name, I felt a rush of nausea and had to grasp my stomach to stop anything from coming up.

"Were you with them when they were killed?"

Naomi's eyes shot to me again-and I knew it was for the last time. "No. Miles passed away saving our classmates in the cafeteria and Brady was shot trying to disarm Clark in his Chemistry classroom on the first floor."

"And at any point did Mr. Rodgers ever show any sort of remorse for what he was doing or had done?"

Naomi shook her head, "No sir."

"Thank you, Your Honor, no further questions."

*

I had completely zoned out when the defense was speaking with Naomi. There were two other classmates and a couple parents that stepped up and spoke after Naomi did as well. I was just so lost in my own thoughts, in watching Naomi as she sobbed into her mother's shoulder in the row directly across from me, that I couldn't bring myself to listen. By the time the judge and all legal professionals came to the conclusion that there would be a continuance to the trial, she adjourned the meeting for the day, and I stood, ready to exit the room.

Unfortunately for me, it wasn't fast enough, nor did Clark care about the repercussions his actions would cause, because he shouted after me, "I hope you suffer. I hope you suffer like he did!"

*

I watched the recording of the trial at the hotel for the next three hours. Mom and Dad had stayed with the attorney to discuss further legal proceedings and outcomes. Sometime while I was lost in the own personal hell that was my mind, Dad must have walked in, because he crossed in from of my blurred line of sight and shut the TV off with a shake of his head.

"There's no need to watch any more of this right now, Evie." he said, edging closer to me. I dodged his outstretched hand and looked to the window and out into the dark night, illuminated by a dimly lit streetlamp on the street below.

"I killed Frankie."

The words slipped out before I had a chance to process what I'd just said aloud. Clark's words had managed to get under my skin and begin to gnaw away at what was left of me since I'd walked out of the courtroom. Somehow, just when I thought he'd taken everything he possibly could from me, he'd taken more.

"What?" my father finally managed to choke out.

Glancing up, I wasn't at all surprised to find him staring at me the way he had at Clark this morning. In horror. Fear. Disgust.

"I killed Frankie, Dad. I did it. Not Clark."

He lowered himself on to the end of the disheveled bed beside me. "What? H. . .how? Why?"

"He shot Miles. Three times in the back the second he turned around. My Miles." my voice caught in my throat and a strangled sob escaped me before I could continue. "He and Clark started arguing, and Frankie dropped his hunting knife. It was so close and I grabbed it. I was trying to go for Clark, Dad. Because I knew if I took Clark down, we could try and reason with Frankie. But Clark, he. . . he dodged my hand and I got Frankie instead."

"Oh, Everly, sweetheart," he reached over and brushed my hair off my dampened cheeks.

"I killed him, Daddy. The blood was everywhere. All over the ground, all over Clark, all over me. Then I ran, I ran as fast as I could. But Clark still got me. He still shot me."

My dad reached over and ran his calloused thumbs under my eyes to catch the tears as they fell. "You did what you had to do to protect yourself, Everly."

"I killed him." I repeated in a sob. "Daddy, I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore."

"Don't talk like that, Evie." he pleaded, his own eyes misty with fresh tears. "You're going to get through this."

I clutched at my chest as if it'd close the gaping hole that burned inside me. With every choked breath I managed, sharp pains shot through my back and ribcage.

"How? How can I get through this when I can't even breathe, Dad? I can't eat, I can't sleep. I should have died, Dad. I should be with Miles."

My father shook his head and moved so he was crouching before me, my face in between his hands. "Don't say that, baby girl. I love you. So God Damn much, Everly. I need you here. Miles wouldn't want that for you, for his sacrifices to be for nothing. You have to keep going, to push through this, baby, if not for yourself, then for him, for all those lost and affected by what Clark and Frankie did."

I touched my own hand to his cheek as stray tears fell silently. "But what if I can't?"

"You will, Everly." he squeezed my shoulder. "You're a survivor."