Wildflower | Volturi Kings

Chapter One: The Prologue

I remember it had been cold that day. The last leaves of Autumn had fallen from the trees, and Jack Frost was spreading his wintery grasp across the town.

I hadn't felt great that morning, so like all grumpy, tired teenagers I'd complained to my parents. That thing that all teenagers do, when you don't get yourself ready for school and then lounge into the kitchen, pulling your best oscar-worthy performance. You groan, moan, and whimper, until one of your parents break, roll their eyes, and give into you. They'll listen to your moans, lay a hand against your forehead, inform you that, no, you don't have a temperature and, yes, you do have to go to school.

You huff at the injustice, and continue to moan until finally, they negotiate. Go to school, see how you feel at lunch, and if you still feel unwell then? Fine, you can come home then. It's the best offer you'll get.

I did all that. Probably threw a performance worthy of Meryl Streep, if I do say so myself. Still got me the same result. But all I wish... I wish that I could go back and have a family breakfast, no moans or groans, just Mom, Dad, and I.

Dad came to pick me up at lunch time, after I got the school nurse to excuse me for the rest of the day. Turns out I didn't need it at all. We were both stood outside the nurse's room, just down the hall from the school reception when it happened.

We heard the gunshots before we saw him. I remember the fear in my father's eyes, as he desperately took in the features on my face, memorising it one last time. His hands shook as they wrapped around my shoulders, as he whispered in my ear, telling me that whatever happened, he loved me.

He started urgently pulling me down the corridor but it was too late. The crazed gaze of the gunman locked onto my father, who stood before me, doing his best to shelter my terrified frame.

It's a struggle to clearly remember the next moments. My therapist likes to tell me that it's my brain blocking the memory in order to prevent any further trauma. I disagree. It's difficult to remember it clearly, because of how fast it occurred.

One moment my strong, brave father was blocking me from the gunman's aim, the next he was slumping over my body, his weight collapsing us on the floor. I remember his voice quietly hissing at me to play dead. I remember wanting to reply, but fear of pain, fear of dying, fear of losing my father kept me silent. Kept my body frozen.

Later I would learn the gunman's name was Jimmy Holt. He was a 38 year old mechanic, who'd just lost custody of his 9 year old daughter to his ex-wife. An act that had made something within him snap. Something that, to him, justified storming my small high school in Ripley, Washington. Something that justified fatally shooting 15 people, and critically injuring 6 others. The newspapers called it a massacre, yet would report how lucky it was that more people weren't harmed. How lucky it was that the school was on lunch break, and that many of the students were outside the building. They said that it could have been so much worse, had Jimmy not been shot dead on sight by police. But by the time Jimmy was dead, it was too late.

It had taken a while for my body to register the deliriously excruciating pain I felt, both physically and mentally. My dad was shot in his stomach three times, each shot further up his torso, whilst I was shot in my left shoulder and upper arm. It would be only ten more minutes before my father succumbed to his injuries. He never even made it to the hospital.

The time between the shooting and the hospital all seemed to blur into one. I remember so much chaos. A flurry of pain and noise seemed to darken my vision. Sirens, screaming, tears. The controlled panic of the paramedics, trying to stop me from bleeding out as we sped towards the hospital.

And then darkness.

I would awaken to find my mother, in a state I had never before seen; unwashed, bedraggled, and her face drawn and gaunt. Apparently I was in a coma for three months, and I remained in the hospital for a further two. They told me I was lucky to be alive. The two bullets that penetrated my body had been removed, but they would leave a lasting effect. It took several weeks to fully figure out the damage, but my left shoulder and upper arm movement would forever be considerably restricted due to the damage caused by the bullets. And, as a cherry on top of an already ruined cake, the wounds would leave significant permanent scarring, the angry red wounds easily standing out from my tawny brown skin.

I don't think the nurses knew how to handle my hysterical crying intermixed with hysterical laughter. The shock of everything - my father was dead, a large number of my school peers were dead, and then me, almost dead but pulled through - grabbed me by the nonexistent balls, and refused to relinquish me for several days.

My mother was just happy I was alive. She didn't care that I was damaged, she just cared that I was still speaking, still with a beating heart. The loss of my father had taken its toll on her, but she persisted - she wanted to make sure she was there for me when I woke up.

Once I was discharged from the hospital, we made the decision to move out of Ripley, to start afresh. We stayed close within Washington, moving to Port Angeles, so that we could stay close to Dad's grave, but far enough that we wouldn't feel bogged down by the memories that clouded over Ripley.

Going back to school wasn't even an option to my mother. She was terrified of a similar incident happening again, so she took it upon herself to homeschool me through the rest of my high school years. I was happy to agree with her, I had no interest in walking into another high school anytime soon.

After I graduated, I was stuck in something of a rut. I tried going to college, but I soon realised that it was a place that wouldn't work for me. Too many memories, too many fears, too many possible triggers. I learnt the hard way after a couple of insensitive, childish students learnt about my past, and thought it would be funny to set off a series of firecrackers, and gun sounds. They sent me into a near comatose state, my panic attack trapping me in my own mind, sending me back to that horrible day. My terrified screams and loud sobs were caught on video and thanks to the outrage of a large number of students and teachers, the perpetrators were disciplined and lost their scholarships.  That day was the last day I ever set foot on a college campus.

And then, when I turned 22, my mother passed away. The doctor told me her heart just gave up. But my therapist reminded me that I can't - I can't give up, I have to stay strong. And I am, well, at least I think I'm staying strong. It's not always easy, but then when I remember my kind, brave father, and my warm, caring mother, I know that they wouldn't want me to dwell on the negatives. They'd push me to live, to grasp each opportunity, each moment I can. So that's what I'm doing.

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