There’s a gun pressed to my head. And a dead body at my feet. We’re in the auditorium, on the stage. I can almost picture this is just an act, but no, I have been taken hostage by my own father.

The room that was once filled with gunshots is now dead silent, except for the occasional moaning or whimpering of the injured that lie around us. I’m staring at a group of police officers. They’re frozen, as if someone pressed a pause button. One of them is saying something, but I can’t hear it.

I feel my dad tug my shirt collar a little, and I suck in a breath. The edges of my vision begin to fray, and soon everything is blurry. My knees feel shaky, and I feel lightheaded. And then there’s black.

I’m walking home from school. My sister is talking about her teacher, the same one I had when I was in first grade, and complaining about something I used to love. It’s windy, so my hair is blowing in my face.

I can see the church where my mom normally picks us up in the distance, but a car pulls up right in front of us. The window rolls down slowly, and inside is

“Dad!” Lyla runs over and pokes her head in through the window. “Dad, I’ve missed you so much! Why did you leave?” I run over too, but I’m less excited to see my father. He slowly gets out of the car and hugs us both, but I push away. I step in front of Lyla and stand as tall as I can.

“Mom said we can’t see you anymore.” He shakes his head.

“Oh, Oakley, I know.” He tries to give me another hug, but I step back. He slowly kneels down in front of us. “Baby, it’s ok. I made a mistake before, but I fixed it. I fixed it, honey! Your mom said it’s ok.”

I let a small smile loose. He smiles, too, and Lyla steps out from behind me. He wraps his arms around us, and this time I don’t push him away. After a while, he looks at us both. ‘

“Now, how does some ice cream sound?”

We never got that ice cream

I blink rapidly and try to sit up. My ears are ringing, and my vision is blurry. I’m pretty sure I’m on the floor. Someone is shouting something, though I can’t seem to figure it out. Then I feel an arm around my chest.

“She’s my daughter,” my father rasped. “I should get to see her!” I immediately try to get out of his grip. Panic surges through my body. My vision has somewhat cleared, and I can see the gun about 10 feet away.

I dig my claws into his arm, but he doesn’t let go. Then I don’t really know what happens, but my father’s grip loosens, and then I’m being dragged away. An officer picks me up and runs. I can hear my dad’s shouts behind me, but I try to block them out. Paramedics rush into the auditorium and begin treating the injured.

The officer rushes me out of the auditorium and sets me down with a bunch of other students, near the main doors. There are a couple of officers around and a few paramedics, too. Almost all of them are injured and crying. ‘

The officer leaves after setting me down, and I don’t know where he went. There’s a girl next to me holding a bloody shoulder and a boy I recognized from my theater class staring blankly at the ceiling. A woman comes up to me and taps me on the shoulder.

“Honey, are you hurt?” I shake my head absently. “I heard you passed out. Are you feeling dizzy?” I shake my head again, trying hard to ignore the screams and cries all around me. “Alright, what’s your name?” Her voice is so soft, but if you listen close enough, you can hear how stressed she is.

“G-- Gra-- Gracie Warren,” I manage to get out. I still wasn't used to my fake name. She writes it down quickly, and I can't help but notice how pretty her handwriting is.

"Are you injured anywhere?" I shake my head yet again. I mean, my head is pounding, but I figure it's just from the stress. I glance around again, trying to slow my breath. The lady leaves, off to assist more bloody gunshot wounds. A thought plunges its way into my head. My father did this. He was the reason so many got hurt. Students most likely died today at his hands. It's enough to make me feel like crying, to hide in a hole and die. Because while he may not care, I do. All those people had families, parents, and little siblings who will now have to live without them. Siblings like... I bolt upright.
"Lyla!" I can't breathe. Lyla is far, just a couple of blocks away at the middle school. If my dad came after me, he surely would go after her as well. I grab the sleeve of a paramedic passing by and pull him towards me. "My sister, she's at the middle school, you have to get her," I gasp. He smiles, clearly trying to comfort me.

"It's alright. The middle school is on lockdown; everyone is safe." I shake my head before he even finishes speaking.

"No, no, you don't understand. He's gonna find her, track her down. There might be others, but she's not safe. Please," He patted me on the back.

"We are doing everything we can to protect the schools in the area. Your sister will be okay," My vision got blurry as they filled with tears.

"Please, I'm trying to tell you that the shooter was my father. I was the target, the reason he--" I choked on the words, but by now I had gotten the paramedic's attention. "My sister is in middle school. That's his next target. I know he's caught, but he might have someone else waiting or trying to grab her. Please just make sure she's safe." I'm fully crying now, and I'm struggling to breathe. The medic calls someone over, a cop, I assume. I stop listening, too focused on thinking of every little thing that could go wrong. Every way my dad could target Lyla, every way I can lose my sister.

I don't remember much of what happens next. I was too trapped in the horrors of my imagination. It used to be something my parents praised me for, but right now it felt just like a curse. And then my thoughts shifted to everything I had done on this wretched day before everything had gone wrong. When there was no shooter, my father wasn't beyond crazy. When the only thing I was worrying about was homework and the upcoming track meet.

I hated track. Actually, I despised it, abhorred it. If there were a word that could fully capture my hatred, I would use it. Mom had insisted me and Lyla both join the track team; she had told us that she wanted us to "be involved," but we both knew she wanted to prepare us in case my father tried to kidnap us yet again. She had done everything. Moved 3 times, tried homeschooling, but it never worked. He just kept coming up with new ways. I was beginning to lose track of how many attempted and partially successful attempts there had been. I think 5? The third time, we got all the way to the next state before the police caught him. I had been in 6th grade, 4 years ago.

I can never understand why my thoughts drifted so much. One moment, I was fully into whatever was happening; the next lost in my own mind. Seemly cut off from reality. What I do remember was screams, another round of gunshots, an ambulance siren, and then the hospital. That's where everything started to actually make sense again. I was in a room by myself with a thick gray curtain. A couple of machines were hooked up just to make sure I was fine, I guess.

I was about to start another crying episode about Lyla when I heard pounding footsteps.

"Ma'am?!" Someone shouted, then the curtain was yanked open.

My mom hurled into the room and hugged me as tight as she could. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" She sobbed but didn't loosen her grip one bit. "Oakley, thank goodness you're ok, I thought surely the shooter would have sh--" she didn't finish, just continued to cry into my shoulder. I was hugging her too and sobbing. But then I remember my whole panic in the first place.

"Mom, mom." I shook her and forced her to look at me. "Where's Lyla?" My voice broke on her name. "Where is she? Please tell me she's safe?" My mom started crying again.

"I don't know, I- they- she's, uh, she's still at the middle school, I think." I inhaled sharply. "But it's ok, sweetheart. The shooting was at the high school. And they caught the shooter. She'll be fine, the school is prepared for this sort of thing." I shook my head, feeling a weird sense of deja vu.

"No, no, no, no. Mom, the shooter, it was--" I felt the words catch in my throat. "It was Dad! He" I inhaled again, pushing back tears. "He held a gun to my head and um..." I couldn't keep the waterfall back. "Mom, he's going for Lyla next. They don't know, but she's not safe." Her face was white, almost transparent. Her eyes wide and her fingers trembling. She opened her mouth, but all that came out was,

"How could Grant do this?"

She's safe. Somehow she's safe. My dad didn't have anyone working for him. Lyla is safe. The school shooting is all over the news but I hardly care. She's safe, we're safe, it's ok

"Oh my God, oh my God, Lyla!" I yelled, running to my little sister, with Mom in tow, scooping her up into a big hug as she cried.

"Oakley! Are you okay?"

I set her down, letting Mom hug her. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." I brushed imaginary dirt off my jeans, and looked around.

The police station was busy, and smelled like wood polish. The lights buzzed above me, as if dozens of flies were trapped between the yellow glass and filament. A tall policewoman, with her hair scraped back into a bun approached us.

"Ma'am? Ms Lyon? We need you here in order for your daughter to give us a statement. Can you tell us anything you know about your husband?"

Mom nodded. "Ex-husband. And yes. I will go with Lyla. And Oakley?"

The policewoman looked at me. "How old are you, darling?"

"Sixteen," I said.

The woman nodded. "Okay. I'm officer Malone. I'm going to need your statement by yourself, can you do that for me?"

I nodded. I hadn't had an adult speak to me like that in years, like I was a really little kid. though, I guess, that's what she's been trained to do. Speak to traumatised kids. I watched as another officer led Mom and Lyla into another room, let Officer Malone get me a hot cocoa while she prepared her notes.

"Okay, sweetie. What do you remember about the shooting?"

"Um," I swallowed, throat dry. "It was the morning, and we were all sat at assembly," I pause. "Then my dad walks in, with an AK, and guns half the students down."

The officer scribbled this down with practiced efficiency. "Good. What next?"

"He grabbed me. He grabbed me and put a handgun to my head, and had his arm around my chest, and--" I stopped, suddenly aware of the sobs threatening to wrack my body. "He said, where's Lyla, she's my daughter too, and then I got free, and--"

The officer placed her hand over mine, as I sipped at my cocoa with the other. "You're doing well, Oakley. Thanks you. Do you know why he said that?"

I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. "The custody agreement. Mom and Dad got divorced, because he hit Lyla, like three months ago, and Mom got scared. And he thinks its my fault."

Officer Malone stopped. "What did he think was your fault?"

"The fact that...I had said in court, he had hit her. He blames me for not being able to see her anymore," I said, suddenly aware of the fat, salty tears running down my cheeks. Officer Malone handed me a tissue, and let me out of the room, where Lyla ran into my arms again.

"Where's Mom?" I whispered.

"She's giving the officer he statement on her own," Lyla said, as we were ferried to a couch in the corner. I bought Lyla a bag of chips from the vending machine, and waited.