Originally posted March 3, 2009
I felt the vomit rise to the back of my throat. Fear clawed and bit a deep pit in my stomach. I re-doubled my effort to squeeze the trigger. The gun did not fire.
Eddie would tell me later. It would stand out as one item among many, loudly questioning my intelligence, my wisdom, and if he should have my hero license yanked. He would tell me of my stupidity at picking up a gun to wander the hallways when a school shooting had been reported. He would wonder aloud about the foolishness of moving around when seriously injured. He would tell me plainly, in a quiet firm voice, that if I was going to use a gun, I had damn well better turn off the safety first.
At that moment, I knew I would die. Theo noticed the effort of my hand and closed his eyes for just a moment. He opened them again when I could no longer keep up the pressure and the muzzle of my gun slid from his cheek. He couldn't even work up a chuckle as he placed the barrel of his weapon against my forehead. He spoke in a quiet whisper, "Failed again."
I mumbled something I hope sounded like, "Goodbye, Regina."
The swooshing sound and faint ozone of energy blasters caught both Theo and me by surprise. The beams struck him roughly in the face, snapping his head back. He collapsed, arm still pinning the girl he had used as a shield just a moment before. I turned, falling against the hall lockers as I did. Eddie stood in the hallway, arms still raised in case Theo needed another blast.
Did I mention Detective Alejandro was attached to the Special Division of the Paragon City Police Department? That's right. Cops with superpowers. Eddie concealed enough technology under his black duster to level a small house. I like to think he dialed it down a bit before he opened up on Theo; just a little bit.
Chuckling softly, I slipped into unconsciousness.
My dad came in from Washington to visit me in the hospital. My mom nearly spent the whole week at my side. Eddie lectured me for hours, long enough for me to wonder just how I could OD on my morphine drip. Parents of fellow students sent flowers. The newspapers wanted an interview. Doubleday was looking for a book deal.
A single strand of hair had confirmed Theo used the snow globe to bludgeon Karen Lack to death. Ballistics matched his pistol to the weapon used to murder Derek, Don Roth, and a few other killings around town. It seemed like Theo found an effective method for solving the little problems of life.
He was talking about it now, confessing it all to the DA, the cops, to whomever would listen. Theo explained how he had killed Derek and Don to help me, to free me from obligations I was too foolish to cast off. That thought still occasionally keeps me up at night.
In spite of the best efforts of his father's crack legal team, Theo would serve out his life in a maximum security prison. When one of the wounded from the shooting at Roosevelt Academy died not two doors down from my room at the hospital, the number of his victims rose to fifteen.
Theo made a point of mentioning how, at the end, I didn't have the guts to pull the trigger. The cops and the DA never said a word to me about it. They didn't even ask as I gave my statement. To most of the kids in the hallway, it looked like I was too physically weak to act. Many students and their parents held me up as some hero; me, Chance, not Kid Harrier. I'm not so comfortable with that idea. Dad and I are looking at an alternative school. I might have a chance to finish up my high school requirements and go to university in the fall.
I think only Eddie and I know the truth of what happened. He would call me frequently after I got out of the hospital. He seemed to predict the moments when the reality of my decision would crash on my brain and send me heaving over a garbage bin or crying for no reason. Well, not for no reason. Anger, doubt, stupidity, fear. Too many reasons and feelings for my body to process, I guess.
I play through the scene less frequently than I did right after that day at school. All of the different possibilities still render less than satisfying outcomes. The counseling helps. Eddie seems to think that as long as I can look at my reflection in the eye, I'll be OK. I wasn't so sure at first.
My physical therapist says my arm will return to about 90% of previous mobility. The bullet shattered the socket and did enough damage to rule out a replacement. I've been tinkering with some ideas for armor. I can't go back out on the streets in tights if I'm at 90%. Might be time to revisit my Nitojutsu training, too. The tip of a sword will be able to travel a lot faster than my right hand after this injury.
That's still a ways off. A tight sling keeps my arm tightly pinned to my chest these days. It will stay on for another four weeks. Sitting around the park on this warm spring night, I don't object to a forced vacation from the cape and tights. I'm meeting someone, someone I can't wait to catch up with, to hold as tightly as I can with my one good arm. The text message came earlier today. I've been re-reading in every couple of minutes as I wait. It read, "Chance, It's Reg. I'm home."
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