The Hostage

It was hard to stay awake.
The heroes of the past just didn't
Have the same hold on you at 16 years old,
The way they did when you were 6.

It was hard to fall asleep.
When Sam, a beautiful boy with
A smile to match,
Walked back into class.
'How's it going?'
I remember him asking, a strange calm
In his voice.
'Pretty good, you?'
I still don't know why I said that,
I was as far from 'pretty good'
As one could be.

It was hard to think of things to say.
As we talked for hours about the things he liked,
the Packers and fishing.
We talked long after school ended,
Long after the day had faded into the night...

It was hard to look away.
Look away from the holes in the desk,
From the weight in his hand.
I scribbled a note on the back of my note sheet.
Never looking up,
Never stopping the conversation.

It was hard to keep him entertained.
There was only so much you could say about football in 6 hours.
There was only so much you could think of while the jingling of the metallic contents of his pocket could be heard.

It was hard to believe.
After 6 hours, the conversation stopped.
After 6 hours, the jingling stopped.
After 6 hours, that beautiful smile faded.
After 6 hours, it ended.

It was hard to hear what I'd been dreading all along.
As we ran from the room,
A single gun shot echoed through the empty halls.
The beautiful boy who'd kept kept me captive,
Kept our history class captive,
Was the only victim.