Sticks & Stones

If I had to choose one word to describe myself, it would not be a self-confident adjective like most of the people I have been surrounded by my entire life. I would not choose strong or attractive or emotional. I would not choose “loyal” like Lindsey Wilson, who I had personally watched lie straight her boyfriend’s face as he died from a bullet wound to the chest the very next day. I would not choose “superficial” like Mason Groves should have done, considering he had tried suing for the blood stain on his Letterman jacket even though half of his classmates were dead.

If I had the choice of one word, one word to be my title, one word to be engraved on my headstone, I would not have to put much thought into it. My answer would be simple, although the meaning behind it would be more complex than you could ever imagine. This was the last assignment I had been given before that day, and with a pained heart I wrote those four letters across the top of my paper and prepared for the countless questions and explanations: G R A Y.

Gray, as in the color. That was the word I chose to describe myself. My entire life, I had blended in. I was just there. People knew my name, but they did not care enough to know me. I never accomplished anything special; I never did anything spectacular with my life. I was smart, but in the world of high school, that didn’t matter unless you were getting laid, too. And I was one of those guys that blended in so much that even the girls looked past me. Just like the color, I did not really belong. I wasn’t a part of the rainbow. I was not the color on a country’s flag. I was just there.

I liked it that way, though. At least for a little while. In the beginning, I did not crave to be the center of attention, I did not want to be known by everyone who crossed my path. Although I wished to be known by more than more than a handful of people, the spotlight was not for me. I was just another face in the crowd, and, in the end, that is why I am alive now.

After all, I do not know a lot about popularity or fitting in, but I know enough to warn you that it is best to keep to yourself. Most people will not take my advice, but just look at is this way; in this story, the kids who kept to themselves were the ones who survived and, well... That pretty much explains what happened to the rest.
Being popular, at first, was a dream come true. But as we all later found out, popularity was the nightmare that left them dead.

I can not even begin to explain how sorry I am for what happened that day. And although several people have assured me that it was not my fault, there is a small part of me that still full-heartedly believes that it was. The media has repeatedly claimed that it was random, and that the victims were all chosen just because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I know the truth. I know why each of those people are six feet under the ground right now.

Which is why I had been spending the past few days contemplating my next move.

I had always been one to over-think every decision I made and word I said. I never, after all was said and done, felt confident in my choices. Especially now, as I pondered the recent attendance of a sad and overwhelming funeral service for one teacher, seven of my fellow classmates, and my brother.

I loosened the tie around my neck and fell to my knees in front of the mirror, my palm finding the glass. I let my fingers stretch across the reflection of my face; covering the resemblance that would haunt me for the rest of my life. I did not know how I was supposed to feel. I did not know if I was supposed to be sad, or happy, or ashamed. I did not know if I was supposed to cry, but I cried anyway.

Between the spaces of my fingers, I could see a part of my face. My hair was shorter, my eyes were greener. But I was him. I would never be able to walk the streets without receiving the stares. I would never be able to live my life without constantly being reminded of him every time I looked in the mirror.

To most of the world, we were one person. Not many knew that there were two of us: the sane one and the crazy one. It infuriated me.

The people who knew the truth were all I had. The rest were too busy blaming me for what he did, only because they thought I was him.

Him.

My twin brother.

Jack.

Not me.

My head fell into my hands, the tears falling in rivers down my face. I screamed at the top of my lungs, wondering if the sound was real or in my head. I cursed at him, wondering if the words were really escaping my lips, or if I only thought they were.

It had not been completely real until I saw the eight caskets lined in a row at the front of the sanctuary. The community gathered. They sobbed and hugged one another and prayed for better days. I stood quietly among the crowd and hoped that I was not noticed. I came to pay my condolences; give the sympathy and sorrow that was truly deserved. And then, as God would have expected me to do, I did the same for my brother.

In a secluded area of the church lay Jack, whom was separated from his victims for good reason. The room he lay in was empty, besides two flower arrangements that the church had provided in order to show support for all of the deceased; no matter what they did prior to death. His casket was closed, and I knew it was because the bullet had destroyed his face. I most likely would not have recognized him, even if I had the chance to look.

The memorial did not include any memories of Jack, nor did the crowd show remorse when his private service was acknowledged. I had watched out of the corner of my eye as Lindsey Wilson’s boyfriend’s mom scoffed at the mention of Jackson Slater’s name. Her son was lying in one of the eight caskets; therefore, I did not really blame her for her feelings. Yet I did my very best to ignore the gesture, and instead, I focused on the ceremony and said goodbye to the classmates that I barely knew. The classmates that I knew did not deserve to die so soon.

With a groan, I washed the memories of the funeral from my mind with failing results. I let my body slump to the floor. I rolled onto my back, my eyes wide and open, yet looking at nothing.

I was numb.

I was alive, but I felt otherwise. I was breathing, but I felt as if I was suffocating. There were
people standing for me; helping me through the pain. But I had never felt more alone.

There was a soft knock at my bedroom door; a sudden noise that broke the silence of my mind. When I did not answer, the knocking continued. Finally, in a whisper, I said, “Come in.”

My aunt Jane peered around the corner. The funeral had been hard on everyone. I did not know if aunt Jane’s sorrow was for Jack, the others, or both, but I truly hoped that she was going to miss him. She gripped the edge of my bedroom door. Her eyes were puffy and red. Her hair was messy. She looked a wreck, but probably better than me. “Honey, it’s time to eat,” she said quietly. Her voice cracked.

She was ashamed. She was embarrassed. She was afraid, because of how many people still wanted me gone. She wanted to believe that what I told her was wrong, but she knew that I had never been able to tell a good lie. My aunt Jane knew me all too well. Better than she thought she had known Jack.

After all, we all thought we knew him.

I was the only one who knew a glimmer of the truth. I did not know everything, but I knew more than anyone else. I knew more than Aunt Jane, Uncle Micah, my grandparents, Coop, the police, the school, the victims. I knew that during the assignment in which we were supposed to describe ourselves in one word, Jack had chosen irascible, which was basically a fancy word for angry--but that was not probable evidence in the eyes of my family. And even though I had tried to tell them all that I knew about Jack and his questionable sanity, it was never enough.

“I’m not hungry,” I whispered back, and my lovely, kind-hearted aunt Jane closed the door behind her without another word. I had not eaten in nearly forty-eight hours, yet I had began to be accustomed to the ache in my stomach; the yearn for food and nutrients. Pain was designed to be felt, and so I felt it. I let the pain engulf me, wrapping eery hands around my heart and my mind and my body. I told myself that I deserved it, and so my body agreed to punish itself.

Maybe I really was just like him. . .

I listened closely for the soft thumping of my heartbeat; wondering how it felt for the rhythm to slow and then finally stop. I wondered if it was painful, or if it took so long that you did not even notice that you were dying. I wanted to know if the victims were in pain when they died, or if they went in peace. I was hoping for the latter. But most of all, I wanted to know if Jack felt his heart stop, or if he was gone long before we even realized.

Sometimes, when I recall the last rise-and-fall of his chest, it feels as if I am dying, too. I first had this feeling only seconds after Jack flat-lined. I was not supposed to be in the room, but I had watched him die through a crack in the door. I wanted to make sure that he died peacefully, even though I would never know for sure. And it looked like he did, only I did not get to look for long. The pain in my chest burned and ached and hurt like Hell. All I remember after that is not being able to breathe, and then waking up in a hospital bed with handcuffs on my wrists.

If you did not think they would arrest a hospital patient, you are wrong. They did it. And even though I was physically breathing again, I was mentally gasping for air. This physical/mental war of oxygen is a very hard feeling to describe, so I will just let you see on your own. If, of course, you do not stick around long enough to find out.

You see, dear reader, as I lay hungry and sad on the floor of my bedroom, I still could not get myself to blame him for what happened. Everyone else did, and sometimes I faltered toward the idea, but I pinned the blame on myself long before Jack’s name even came to my mind.

When I first said those words that I do not like to repeat, Jack took them seriously. He did not think that I was joking, and when I look back on that day, I can’t really remember if I was. No, I did not expect him to do what he did. And no, I do not think that we he did was right. But I was the one who said it; therefore, it was my idea. I did not spend three days in jail for no
reason, after all.

There were five seniors among the dead, one of them being Jack. Five students who were fifteen days short of their high school graduation. Five students whose lives were ended all because of… us. And thirteen more who were either injured or devastated by the loss of their classmates.

I had held the gun in my hand, but I never once pulled the trigger. Even if I had the chance, I do not believe that I could have followed through. I had never believed that my hands were capable of death, and I never wanted to find out. Then again, I had never believed that my brother’s hands were capable of such thing.

That was the difference between Jack and I.

He was strong and powerful, and I was weak. He was brave and courageous and daring, and I was too scared to handle my problems on my own. He faced his fears and stood up for himself and what he believed in, no matter what the consequences. He did not care what others thought. He did not care who he hurt in the process of his actions.

Maybe, if I had been more like Jack, none of this would have happened. The world could have went on peacefully with Jack and I both alive and still a part of it.

But in that case, I would not be lying alone on the floor of my bedroom, still wearing my funeral suit, contemplating my brother’s motives. I would not be at war with myself; trying to figure out whose fault it really was, or if I really wanted it all to happen. No matter how much I thought about the situation, though, I knew that it would never change.

I said before that there was a crazy and a sane one among the two of us. Yet I had come across another problem. Because, lately, I could not seem to figure out which one I was.