CONTENT WARNING:

This chapter contains scenes of violence, including gun violence. It also contains depictions and mentions of nightmares and other disturbing content. If you have experienced trauma related to these topics, it may be triggering to read. Please exercise caution while reading, and consider seeking support from a professional if needed. It will also be stated where sensitive contents start and end in subsequent chapters.

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My name is Rhea Davis, and I am a survivor of a school shooting that took place one year ago in my high school. It was the end of my junior year, and we were all looking forward to the holidays. The principal had instructed everyone to attend an end-of-session party on the final day. I remember that day vividly; it continues to replay in my mind. I even bought new clothes for the party.

That morning, I was so excited that I woke up at 6am, two hours earlier than my usual time. I quickly freshened up and put on black baggy jeans, a yellow crop top with a sunflower design, and black Converse sneakers that I had bought from a boutique near my home the previous day.

Having lived in Colorado Springs my entire life, I had always talked with my mom and dad about my plans to move to New York for college. I believed there would be more opportunities there, and as graduation approached, I had already begun to dream about the kind of house my boyfriend and I would rent. Grabbing my black school bag from my dresser, I stole one last glance at myself in the mirror.

That day, I practically ran down the stairs, hastily trying to tie up the loose strands of my raven hair into a bun. I looked to my left and saw my mom in the kitchen cooking eggs and bacon. I walked up behind her and hugged her waist. "Where's Dad?" I asked.

"He's still sleeping. Why are you up so early? That's unlike you," she replied, turning to face me.

I chuckled and told her I was going to Elvis's house before school.

"Aren't you going to wait for breakfast?" she asked.

I looked into her eyes, once again struck by how much we resembled each other. I am a carbon copy of my mom. We both have sharp blue eyes, ivory skin, heart-shaped faces, slender frames, thin pink lips, freckles, and thick raven-dark hair. We were almost the same height.

"I love you, Mom. Tell Dad I love him too," I whispered in her ear before dashing towards the living room and out the door.

Standing on the front porch, I took in deep breaths of the crisp morning air, thankful that summer was just around the corner. I admired the beautiful scenery ahead of me; my destination was just to the right. I walked purposefully to my boyfriend's house, grateful that it was only twelve blocks away. I knocked twice on his front door.

After waiting frustrated for about five minutes, he finally opened the door. I remembered how much I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. But when he wrapped his arms around my waist, I forgot all my vengeful thoughts and melted into his kiss.

After what felt like an eternity, I pushed his hands away and looked at him sternly. "Lover boy, you kept me waiting."

Most of the time, he was home alone. His parents were busy businesspeople with homes in other countries, so they rarely returned home. I only ever saw them during the few weeks they spent at home during Christmas and summers.

"I'm sorry, but I thought I could get away with that kiss," he pouted, and I couldn't help but smile.

"GO GET READY!" I yelled, shooing him away as I made my way to his fridge.

I grabbed an apple and sat down on one of the stools at the island. I scrolled through my phone, checking Twitter. My feed was full of tweets from all my friends about the end of junior year and the upcoming party.

Twenty minutes later, Elvis came downstairs, and I couldn't help but stare. The sun streaming through the curtains illuminated him brightly. He ran his fingers through his warm caramel-blonde hair, which was still damp. His black jeans and plain dark blue shirt contrasted with his brown eyes and fair skin tone, perfectly complementing his 6ft frame. He stood confidently in the spotlight of the morning sun, running his fingers through his tousled hair.

"You can't stop staring, can you?" he smirked, meeting my gaze directly. It took me a few moments to snap out of my trance.

"Are you ready?" I asked, attempting to evade his question so as not to give him the satisfaction he sought.

Thirty minutes later, we arrived in front of our high school, and I couldn't help but notice the palpable excitement in the atmosphere. Teens were buzzing with plans for the summer and chatter about the party. Elvis took my hand in his, and suddenly I felt grateful for his presence. He guided me through the crowded hallway and into the vast auditorium.

As we sat together, I looked around and noticed how packed it was. I had never seen so many students in one place before. When Principal Grace stepped onto the podium, the chatter subsided—a rare occurrence, as usually she had to quiet the students two or three times before speaking.

Principal Grace looked especially elegant that morning, exuding her usual aura of calm. I admired her.

"Good morning, students. I'm very proud of all of you for the strength and resilience you've shown again this academic year. It just goes to show that anything is possible with hard work and perseverance. You should all be very proud of yourselves. As we're all aware, there's going to be a party..." Her words were interrupted by the event that would shatter Colorado and disrupt my once-peaceful life.

It still feels like yesterday.

Until that day, I had never witnessed anyone being killed in my presence before. I don't know who the shooter was, but I believe he was seated at the far right of the auditorium.

All the students were listening intently when suddenly a gunshot rang out, and Principal Grace fell.

It seemed like a prank at first. I'm sure it took a good two minutes before everyone snapped back to reality. Our principal lay in a pool of her own blood on the podium, a bullet in her head.

Everyone went crazy.

People trampled over each other, and more shots rang out. Everyone struggled to escape the auditorium, some rushing toward the main entrance—also the primary exit—only to find it bolted shut. I glanced toward one of the emergency exits and saw people dropping like flies.

The shooter fired in that direction.

I think I froze when I saw the shooter, clad in various bulletproof armor and a helmet. I snapped back to reality when Elvis tugged at my arm, pulling me toward the emergency exit on the other side of the auditorium. I looked at him, seeing sweat pouring down his face.

Students flooded into the hallway. Amidst the chaos, we could have been mistaken for excited teens rushing toward the stage at a concert. Elvis held my hand tightly, almost painfully so, guiding me toward Classroom 105. I saw other students flipping tables and some sobbing loudly. I still don't understand why I didn't break down at that moment. Perhaps I was in shock, my brain struggling to process the chaos unfolding around me.

Then the gunshots grew louder and closer. People dropped to the ground, and some students dashed for the door. I looked out the window and saw students in the hallways, running and shouting, banging frantically on closed doors like ours.

More shots echoed through the school. More students fell. Elvis pulled my arm and led me to crouch behind a flipped desk. He pressed his finger to his lips, signaling for silence, but I was still processing everything.

The loud sobs in the classroom had subsided when I heard solitary footsteps just outside our door. The shooter kicked the door several times with his feet in an attempt to open it, but it remained shut.

I looked to my right and saw Mia, my friend since fifth grade, sobbing into her knees. I wanted to move toward her, to wrap my arms around her, but before I could react, shots rang out through the door and windows of the classroom.

Glass shattered, and students screamed. I looked to my right just before a bullet struck Mia, leaving her motionless on the floor. I glanced to my left and saw Elvis, wide-eyed. He looked at me, and I wondered what he saw. That's when I felt a sharp pain in my chest.

I had been shot.

My ears rang, and my vision blurred. In that moment, I wondered if this was the end of my life. I couldn't even say goodbye to Dad. I slumped back, my breathing slowing. I closed my eyes, surrounded by shouts and agonizing screams. I felt cold, desperately wanting to sleep. I saw Grandma and Louis, my sweet baby brother who had passed away from pneumonia a year earlier. He looked happy, playing in a field of sunflowers.

"Rhea, Rhea," he called out, reaching his tiny hands toward me. I was about to take his hand when I felt myself being pulled back with great force, as if I were being lifted into the air. My head pounded, and I struggled to open my eyes. I blinked several times and saw masked men. They spoke inaudibly, one of them shouting something about consciousness and medics. I closed my eyes and sank back into the warm abyss.