The Silence

One by one the teenagers slowly begin to relax. Relief washes over their faces; the calm after the storm. They loosen their grip on one another and life gradually begins to creep its way back into the classroom. I make a pitiful attempt to speak aloud, to reassure and comfort but, only a whisper of a croak escapes my lips. Harshly, I clear my throat and attempt to speak once more. A shopping list of questions rushes hurriedly from my mouth; are you OK? Is anyone hurt? Is anyone missing? How long has it been silent for? My questions remain unanswered; fear still so prominent in the atmosphere. We wait. The silence grows on. Desperately, I pray for someone to come for us, to bring us good news that we are alone once more or to guide us to safety. No one does.

Carefully, I dislodge myself from the ball I have curled myself into, hidden underneath the large wooden desk at the front of the classroom. We have shelter in the classroom yet, I have a growing fear that the slightest noise or abrupt movement could alert them to our whereabouts. I stifle a sob, desperately wanting to break free from my chest; I cannot have my thoughtlessness, be the reason these students come to harm. I glance towards the class once more; a group of young adults who now, in this moment, look like infants once again. The terror that plagues their usually carefree expressions makes the bile rise in my stomach. I can feel the colour drain from my cheeks. Tear droplets begin to spill from my eyes, staining my cheeks as they run down my face, the sweat on my palms beginning to stick to the exposed skin. I survey the classroom; sheets of paper litter the floor, scattered during the commotion. I notice the blinds covering the windows are down, blocking the outside world from seeing into the classroom. I confuse myself as to whether I am thankful for this, or inwardly scolding whoever lowered them in the first place. I reason that this could mean that the gunmen are not aware that we are here yet, I fret this means the police do not know of this fact either.

Lifting my fingers to my lips, I gesture for the class to remain quiet. I shuffle on my knees to the front of the classroom, pressing my back against the cool, solid whiteboard that hangs on the wall. From this position, I can peer up through the window by the door of the classroom, the window that looks out into the hallway. The hallway is barren. Not a single figure can be seen and, I have this unsettling feeling that we are the only ones left alive in the school. I pray that many have fled, I wish for mine and my student’s safety. At a mere 23 years of age, I know I am out of my depth. Realisation sweeps over me; the realisation that I am not much older than the students that sit just metres from my feet. The students that look to me for guidance, for reassurance that they will be OK. How can I look after them all, ensure their safety, when I am not even sure I can do that for myself? They watch me now; willing me to save them but, in this moment, I am just as clueless, just as fearful as they are. Involuntarily, my eyes draw to a close, fatigue slowly washing over me. The events of the last hour unfold in my mind. Sounds of gunshots ring loud in my ears. I recall the screams of those who were injured; sobs of both pain and fear. We never saw the gunmen but heard their shouts and demands all too clear. Urging students to their knees, threatening teachers to move, to stand straight against the wall.

* * *

The Beretta feels hot and heavy in the pocket of my ripped denim jacket. My fingers caress the tip of the pistol, fiddling with the catch, lingering over the trigger. I feel a sense of control with this hidden in my pocket, knowing that, in any second, the balance of the room can switch. Miss Martin left powerless, no longer able to undermine me. She thinks just because she is white, because she is a teacher I should respect her. I will always remember the suspicious looks she gave me the morning of the random locker searches. I could tell she believed they would find something illegal in mine. Shouldn’t she know we’re smarter than that? I recall the look in her eyes when gang related crime was covered during class; as though she expected me to reveal some kind of inside knowledge or, better yet, break down and confess an array of unlawful acts. But, no. We are not a gang. We are a movement. A movement of young blacks from across the city of Chicago, uniting to put an end to white supremacy. Martin Luther was wrong; equality isn’t key. The whites will never accept us as equals. Why should we bow down to their superiority? It’s about time I show everyone in this school, everyone in this city, what the BKOI can really achieve.

* * *

I can feel my heart thudding abruptly in my chest. I want to cry, I want to scream. I observe the sea of faces once again. Most of them have their eyes closed, I infer that they are praying just as I did. I guess many of them have siblings in the school; they’ll be desperate to know that their loved ones are safe. Locking eyes with one student, I force my lips into a wry smile. Marcus is often in and out of trouble, frequently truant, disruptive and, sometimes even violent. I have suspected his involvement in gang related activity during the last year. You could call it paranoia, but his behaviour was suspicious, unsettled when gang culture was covered during class time. I have always felt he was hiding something. I have never broached the subject with Marcus. If I’m honest, it has been down to fear more than anything else. I tell myself not to interfere but now, I have this rising feeling that I perhaps should have. Marcus wears an expression that doesn’t match the others in the classroom. It looks almost like guilt and, I have this unnerving feeling that he is involved in some way. He fidgets on the floor, constantly shuffling from one sitting position to another. I attempt to mask my fear and focus on the hallway and whether any movement, any life can be heard.

For a split second, I think I can hear hurried footsteps move across the hard, wooden floors and once again motion for the classroom to remain silent and still. Listening hard, I try to decipher where the footsteps are heading, but they fade away and the eerie silence grows on. Crouching down into a sitting position on the floor once more, I contemplate the options we are faced with. Do we make a break for it and hope for the best? Do we stay where we are, praying that help will eventually come? Perhaps I should phone the police, alerting them of the incident. I know in my heart that I must be the one to make this decision. I also know that, whatever the consequences, I must accept responsibility for the outcome. Allowing myself a few moments to develop the courage, I eventually gather myself and gradually rise to my feet. The students observe my hesitant movements and I can almost hear them wondering what I am about to do.

* * *

My heart is racing. I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times, considered the outcomes, the consequences. I need to plan my moment carefully. I must make a big impact, that’s what they told us. Our intentions must be known. As I look up towards Miss Martin I notice her move onto her feet. What is she doing? The sweat begins to form on my forehead, small beads clinging to my brow, as I observe her closely. Gritting my teeth, I survey the people around me. Miss Martin walks across to her desk before looking down at us all, still crouched vulnerably on the floor. She opens her mouth, telling us in a hushed voice that she intends to phone the police. Shit. She hopes they are already in the building. My body becomes rigid; if she calls the police I will not be able to fulfil my part of the operation. I will have failed. My eyes move around the classroom, regarding everyone’s reaction now. They appear relaxed almost, no one suspects anything that is one thing I am certain of. It is now or never.

* * *

My voice is barely more than a whisper, I inform everyone of my attention to contact the police before reaching into the top drawer of my desk, feeling around for my phone. Unexpectedly, another gunshot sounds, breaking the silence, making everyone jump from their position on the floor. The students scatter to the left side of the classroom, their eyes following the sound of the gunshot. Frozen in my position, I reluctantly look towards the back of the classroom. Marcus is now standing on his feet; a Beretta Nano clasped in his hands, pointed in my direction.

“NO.” His shout seems much louder now, a harsh sound breaking the long silence we have all just endured.

The sound makes me shudder, the hairs on my arms standing on end. My eyes are fixated upon the pistol, an inaudible sob rising from my chest. I have never liked guns. My father was a policeman and I knew only too well the dangers of them and the true damage they could do. He died when I was just nine years old. A member of a local gang pulled a gun on him during an altercation at a drug store. He never stood a chance. I couldn’t bring myself to believe that this was truly happening. Heart breaking sobs commenced once more across the classroom. The students clutched at one another, reassuring and comforting one another, seeking comfort themselves. The realisation of what was unravelling struck each student, one by one.

“Please Marcus. Don’t do anything silly here. You have a choice in this you know.” Pleading with him may only strengthen this sense of control but, in this moment, it is the only thing I can think of. I am surprised by how calm my voice sounds, given that my hands are shaking uncontrollably by my sides. I notice his hand quivering, as he points the pistol in my direction. Instinctively, I raise my hands in the air; a gesture that lets him know I am no threat to him.

* * *

Look at her now. Hands in the air, surrendering to my supremacy. She’s not so clever now, is she? There has always been something about Miss Martin that makes my blood boil. Her patronising grin, her judgemental tone, but I know deep down it is more than that. She wouldn’t be so smug if she knew the truth about her precious father’s murder. I was only a child myself at the time but, I heard all the details as I grew up. Reggie is still serving his sentence. I watch Miss Martin now. There is fear in her eyes. I’m laughing now. She doesn’t have a clue what I am capable of. I’m doing this for my brothers in the BKOI. I’m doing this for Reggie.