Unhinged (2 page)

Great, now I am a drug.

Another scream diverts my attention back to
what is happening in the cafeteria.

“What do you think is going on?” I ask Logan,
fear coursing through my veins. You hear all sorts of sounds in the
cafeteria of a big school like Mountain Creek High. Even a squeal
or two while flirting. But this scream was different. This scream
was born out of terror.

I involuntarily rub the scar on my abdomen.
The mark is what remains of my knife wound. It serves as a constant
reminder of the hell I went through to get back to life—back to a
reality where I actually want to live. Logan peels himself from my
side and moves to climb up onto the table to better see around the
mob that’s forming. Once on top of the table, he holds out his hand
so he can pull me up onto the table beside him. I don’t hesitate at
all before I take it with my ungloved hand.

Instantly, I feel the familiar jolt of
electricity, but this time it’s stronger. It sends a huge jolt down
my spine, sending tingles throughout my body.

Wow, that’s new.

I usually love to feel Logan’s touch; love to
lose myself in the pure pleasure I feel when his skin touches mine.
But I am too distracted right now to appreciate it.

Using Logan as my anchor, I lean up onto my
tip toes and take in the scene before me. Nothing could have
prepared me for what I see next.

A tall and lanky boy is standing dead center
of a large circle of students. Some are daring to get nearer, while
others are clearly trying to move away. The boy has a crazed look
in his eyes, and his dark hair is standing on end. His white shirt
is ripped in long slits down the front and it’s stained with blood.
The rips must have come from the knife in his hand. He is wielding
like a sword, striking out at anyone who comes near him.

“Don’t touch me!” he yells at the top of his
lungs. “I won’t let you near me with those machines again. No more
damn electric shocks!” he yells in spurts. “I told you a hundred
times that I don’t know anything! You can put those damn electrodes
on my head and push the button over and over again but I don’t know
where it is! So go away and leave me the hell alone!”

The insane boy runs his hands through his
disheveled hair, pulling some of it out by the roots. He pounds his
fist against his head and mutters in a soft voice only he could
possibly hear. It looks like he’s arguing with himself. Fleetingly,
I wonder who would win—the sane one or the crazy one. From here, it
looks like the sane side is losing the argument, and badly.

Blood is trickling down his black basketball
shorts causing droplets to spray out all around him as he walks
back and forth within the circle. I count three teachers and two
administrators on the outskirts of the circle. They try talking to
him as they calculate the best way to approach the boy armed with a
four-inch blade. As a general (and obvious) rule, knives are not
allowed in school. From this distance, it looks like a common
cutting knife, which could be easily smuggled into school in a
lunch box.

Mr. Hardigree, the physics teacher, slowly
separates himself from the mob and enters the circle. For the
moment, the boy is too busy arguing with himself to notice.
Hardigree slowly positions himself to subdue the boy from behind,
being very careful not to enter his line of sight. From the other
side of the circle, a safer distance away, a student that
apparently craves bloodshed begins to chant: “Stab, stab, stab,” at
the top of his lungs, heckling the poor guy. As if on cue, some
other unruly students join in the chant.

The crazed boy looks up in obvious confusion,
laced with a heavy dose of agitation. He turns his head toward the
jeering students’ side of the circle. Out of the corner of his eye,
he sees Hardigree approaching him from behind. He faces the
middle-aged man and lets out a feral snarl. I watch in horror as he
lunges at the science teacher, knife grasped firmly in hand like a
spear. A loud gasp fills the cafeteria as we watch the events
unfold.

Hardigree tries to back away, but he’s not
fast enough. The younger, more agile boy lunges for him, yelling,
“Not again!” and plunges the knife into the teacher’s gut. Blood
spurts out, spackling the
Pizza Line
sign behind the
teacher. Still more blood launches in spurts in various directions,
hitting the other students unfortunate enough to be near the
altercation. The two assistant principals and the other teacher
lunge at the boy simultaneously and tackle him to the ground.

Stunned and bewildered, the boy goes down
without a fight. He drops the knife now stained dark crimson.
Clarity seems to return a bit as he looks in horror at what he has
done.

“Mr. H?” he says in a voice dripping with
bewilderment and turmoil. “Mr. H, what happened to you?” he
repeats, his voice a scream, seemingly aware of the horrific act
that was committed, yet unable to comprehend that he was actually
the perpetrator. Looking down at himself, the boy grows more
panicked by the moment.

“Why am I covered in blood?” he asks no one
in particular, his voice rising in pitch with every word. “Let me
go!” he screams to the adults holding him down. “You need to help
Mr. Hardigree! Why are you doing this to me?” he finishes, still
completely unaware that the reason for all of this blood is because
he went nuts.

All around the cafeteria students are
scrambling, some to get closer to the actions, others to flee from
the bloodshed. Logan, Dejana, and I stand like statues on top of
the table, unable to move from pure shock. We’re horrified that
blood is once again being spilled in the cafeteria of our school.
The teachers are too concerned with getting the boy out of the
school and securing the cafeteria; no one cares about a few kids
standing on top of a table, far away from the scene of the
crime.

It doesn't take long for the ambulance and
police to arrive. They take care of Mr. Hardigree first, as
expected, before hauling the boy covered in blood out of the
cafeteria and into the police car. He's still rambling and
muttering to himself in between bouts of clarity. The sane side of
him appears and disappears like a switch flipping off and on. Maybe
he has mental problems we didn’t know about. Either way, I could go
years without seeing anything else like it again.

Once the threat is contained, the teachers
move everyone out of the cafeteria and into a safe zone. Dejana,
Logan, and I go together to the Texaco gas station just across the
street. It’s easily accessible and the first location in an
emergency where students are sent to wait for their parents to pick
them up. Since both Dejana and Logan drive to school, we are the
lucky ones that can leave, as long as we have our parents’
permission. I call Mary at the vet school of the University of
Georgia where she works as the senior admissions director.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Aim?” she asks in
her concerned voice that, of late, seems constantly on edge. Ever
since the fire at our house set by the killer, Mary hasn’t been
quite herself. Or rather, she is herself, just a more paranoid
version.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. We were very far
away from what happened and Logan was with me the entire time,” I
add, knowing that she worries less when Logan is with me. Since he
was the one who helped save us from the fire in our home, he has
become my own personal bodyguard in her eyes. Not that I mind.

“Well, okay then, sweetie. Just please text
me when you get to Dejana’s house. I don’t want you to be alone
right now and I can’t get out of here for at least another
hour.”

“Thanks. I promise that I’ll be home in time
for dinner,” I say trying my best to ease the worry that is her
ever-constant companion now. It isn’t easy loving someone who’s
cursed.

I say goodbye to Mary and push the end button
at the same time as Dejana. We look at each other and laugh;
sometimes we are so in sync I wonder if she isn’t really my
sister.

Grateful to have this day completed, we all
walk to the student parking lot adjacent to the memorial. We pass
through the garden they erected filled with every flower
imaginable, careful not to tromp on any of the delicate petals. As
we pass by the freestanding plaque with the names of each student
who died in the bombing that cold day in September, we kiss our
hands and lightly touch it. It is our way of showing tribute to the
fallen. Even more so for the three of us, since we know the truth
of the horror brought to light that day from beneath the
rubble.

Chapter
Three

~ No One Knows What Lies Within ~

Dejana’s house isn’t far from school, so
within minutes we’re dropping our book bags by the back door and
settling in for a snack since our lunch was interrupted. Dejana
grabs some chips and dip from the pantry while I take out three
Cokes from the fridge. We all gather around her huge wooden kitchen
table and dig into the food.

None of us are talking since each of us is
caught up in our own thoughts about what happened in the cafeteria
just an hour ago. I keep seeing the shocked look on Mr. Hardigree’s
face as the knife entered his gut. That isn’t something you so
easily forget. And why was the boy so surprised when he finally
realized what he had done? It was like the blood brought him back
to reality. But where did he go in the first place? What did he
expect would happen after stabbing Mr. H? That he would get back
up, laugh, and just skip away?

That boy must have been on drugs. I hear some
kids sniff bath salts to get high. Maybe that’s what happened and
he had some adverse reaction. That makes the most sense to me.

I’m brought out of my shell of memories by
the crunching sound of my friends enjoying their snack. I’m the
first to break the silence.

“So, what do you guys think happened to that
boy? I was thinking maybe it was a bad reaction to drugs or
something,” I say, trying to break the ice a bit.

Beside me, Logan draws in a deep breath like
he is reluctant to say what he feels he must. “His name is Eddie
Mitchell. He’s on the lacrosse team. He’s one of the nicest guys I
know, and I’ve never seen him act like that. And in answer to your
question, Aim, I don’t think it was drugs. He treats his body like
a temple. Maybe he just lost it, ya know? Exams are coming up and
getting into college is getting tougher and tougher. So maybe he
just snapped,” finishes Logan, clearly not buying into his own
theory.

To my right, Dejana stays silent. I am fairly
sure that she doesn’t know him, but even as her best friend, I
don’t know all of her secrets. I see a tear fall down her face and
sigh. She does know him after all.

“Dejana, are you okay? Do you want to talk
about it?” I ask hesitantly. The last thing I want to do is talk
about it, but like any good friend, I also want to do what is best
for her.

Dejana shoves chips into her mouth like they
might disappear, and pointedly ignores me. I look to my left and
see Logan doing the same thing. Well, this isn’t awkward at
all.

“So... This is fun. But how about we do
something else? Anyone up for some Ping-Pong or air hockey? Dejana
has the best basement game room around,” I point out in a hopeful
voice.

Anything is better than this silence. I’ve
lived too long alone in the dark to ever want to hear the sound of
silence again.

Both of them perk up, grateful to have
something other than bloodshed to think about. Logan smiles and
nudges Dejana; a silent message every girl seems to understand,
even though we aren’t given any kind of instruction book for boys.
Dejana takes a swig of Coke, sets it down loudly on the table,
looks me straight in the eyes, and states, “I’m game. But I get
Logan on my team, Aimee, cause you suck at sports amiga.”

I don’t even get the chance to pretend to be
offended because Dejana looks playfully at me and Logan, touches
both of us lightly on the arms, and says, “Tag. You’re it!” before
running down to the basement. Logan follows her deftly, using his
strong legs and years of running for sports to not only catch up
with Dejana, but to dodge in front of her and take a flying leap
down the stairs to the basement two at a time. From the kitchen, I
can hear her scolding him playfully as I lag behind to shove one
more chip into my mouth. I chew slowly as I smile and make my way
to the basement door, enjoying this perfectly normal teenage
moment. I completely ignore that gnawing feeling in the pit of my
stomach saying that it isn't going to last.

* * * *

After four hours of playing mindless games
with an eclectic selection of music blaring in the background, all
was officially right with the world again. As much as I loathe for
the fun to end, reality calls. Whether I like it or not, it's time
to go forth into the big bad world again. I promised Mary I would
be home by dinner, which is usually around six o’clock, so I’d
better get a move on or she'll worry, especially after what
happened in the cafeteria today.

After losing yet another game of Ping-Pong to
Dejana, I throw down my paddle and it lands with a thud on the
table.

“Sore loser huh, Aim?” she teases as she
tosses the tiny, evil, impossible-to-hit, white ball in her hand.
Even though she isn’t paying a bit of attention to it, each toss
lands perfectly back into her cupped hand. Show off.

“Nope, I bow to your highness, the queen of
Ping-Pong,” I say as I give her a mock bow. “I am but a lowly
peasant, grateful for the ass whooping.”

Dejana laughs heartily and shakes her head at
me. “You got that right girl. Learn your lesson well or I’ll have
to give you another beat down.”

From the corner, I hear Logan laugh. I turn
to the deep sound of mirth coming from an oversized black leather
chair next to the stereo system. Everything in Dejana’s basement is
top of the line. I guess having a lawyer for a father and a doctor
for a mother offers certain advantages in life. And those
advantages are seen everywhere in her museum-like mini-mansion they
call a house. Logan is scrolling through his iPod, trying to find
another song. I make my way over to the chair and lean over a bit
to look at it with him. Logan moves so fast, I don’t even see it.
One second I am watching him scroll, the next I am sprawled across
his lap, gasping and doing my best to get up. His grip is like iron
though, and he anchors me to the spot. I look into Logan’s face and
see a mischievous look in his eyes. One I have become more and more
familiar with these past few months; and one against which I am
powerless.