We're Ghosts in a Hail of Bullets

There were so many tears shed. My heart sank, or broke, or shattered. It did something that hurt. A thin, cold, bony hand wrapped it's sharp fingers around my aching heart and squeezed until I couldn't breathe. The people around feared that I was choking, but I was fine, physically. They all asked me if I was okay, but I didn't answer. I ran. I jumped down the bleachers and once I touched the ground I didn't stop until I was at my house. So many thoughts wisted through my head like bullets. So many tears stained my face. And that hand never let go.
I tried fighting off the invisible man or woman who was gripping around my heart, but they simply laughed at me and held on tighter. The pain inside my chest grew and grew until my body felt numb. I still felt the aching sensation that vibrated through out my body, but I ignored it as best as I could. It didn't do any good. The spirit saw through me. They laughed at my attempt at being strong and tighten its grip. Air began to escape my lungs in gasping breaths, but I managed to keep breathing through sobs. Pathetic whimpers also escaped my lungs. I found a way to mutter no under my breath, but what good did that do?

My legs ran for the hour that they had to with out complaining but they gave up once I entered the front door. I fell to my knees in my empty, haunt house and buried my face into the floorboards. My sobbing echoed through out the house and my tears stained the hard wood, but I didn't care. I screamed to a God that might not be there for some guidance. I never prayed before, but I did that day. Did my scream reached him? I have no idea. I didn't care. I just wanted something to cling onto in my sorrow and confusion.
Memories passed through my head of Tate and I, holding hands and kissing on my bed. My parents wandering the floor beneath us, not knowing that he's even there. He kisses my cheek, whispers sweet nothings in my ear, smiles at me, and pierces through my soul with those hard, beautiful, brown eyes. The pain in my chest some how decides to share some its pain with my head. A jack hammer begins to pound into my skull as my heart tries to break free by beating faster and faster. My lungs practically collapses under all of the pressure. If none of that killed me then my tears should have drowned me.
The world went black and for a second I thought I killed myself with all of the emotional pain I put myself under. But I woke up in my bed, in my room, the lights were off, and some one was stroking my hair. It could have been a dream, but I felt the tear stains on my face that had hardened. My hair was in tangled knots and a frizzy mess. My body ached in every limb. My head...was wrecked. Throbbing vibrations ran up the walls of my skull and rattled my brain like an earthquake. I didn't notice the person laying next to me for a while. I couldn't adjust my vision to care. I had to turn my back and touch his face before I realized that I was sharing a bed with a killer. Every sense I could muster told me to push him away and run for the door but my body wouldn't allow me. This sent anger through out my being. A fire burned within me. It burned for my own body, which allow me to do the right thing, and it burned for Tate. All of the blood he shed and the people he's hurt. How many more were there? Did he stop at fifteen? Are there more? How many people has he watch die? All the screams and the blood and wounds. My mind turned into a horror movie.

"Are you okay?" Tate asked so sweetly. I bit my lip as more tears rolled down my pathetically stained face. The words I wanted to speak swelled in my throat and clogged my air waves. My face flushed a scarlet red and my eyes began to burn with dryness. "Baby," he whispered to me as he pulled me closer.

Push him back. Go away! I hate you! I thought to myself. I couldn't bring myself to refuse. I just cried.
My face was buried into his chest and I crying in his shirt. I sobbed for what felt like hours but the sun didn't move from it's place. Tate pet my hair, trying to comfort me, but it didn't do anything but scare me. Did he hurt people he loved? Was he a serial killer? Could he be both? I couldn't even wrap my mind around the fact that the shootings took place in 1994. Tate was eighteen. He should be in his thirties. That fresh, pale face I saw through my blurry vision wasn't the face of a thirty-year-old man. It was of a sweet, caring, and gorgeous eighteen-year-old boy. Those eyes told of age though. I never noticed what they were telling me because I was blinded by beauty. They screamed at me to listen. What have they witnessed? Horrors. So many horrible things. So many lives ripped away from the hands of his victims. I couldn't bring myself to believe it. I just embraced him like nothing was wrong, but everything was wrong. This whole relationship was wrong.

"You're a murderer," I managed through struggled breathes and sobs. I didn't move away though and he didn't push me away. His breathing stopped and laid still. Like a statue sculpted for me. Before he yell at or cast me away, I cling onto his black, thermal shirt and cried harder. The realization of his sins hurt me more than it hurt him I think.

Some how I wiped away those tears and mustered up a voice. I explained to him in little detail what happened at school. He looked at me with hatred and it terrified me. I think he was more mad at Jessica and Wullenborg than me, but I was in the arms of a killer. That should have chilled my bones.
Tate didn't say anything. He just shook his head and shed a few tears. I wanted to reach out and brush them away. It took all my strength not to.

"Why, Tate?" I sobbed, "What did they do?" I begged for an answer. He just shook his head more.

"I don't know!" he yelled. He jumped out of my bed and tried to away but I chased him down the hallway.
I grabbed him by his shirt and threw him up against a wall. He knew not to fight back.

"Tate," I whimpered through fear and sadness.

"Anna," he replied with the same voice, "I'm sorry,". He kissed my forehead and began to cry along with me. We stood there together, crying, sobbing, and hoping for some sort of light at the end of the tunnel. There was only more darkness.
I knew Tate was bad. More than bad. He was a monster, but where was the monster? Monsters don't feel sadness or misery. They feel rage, and hatred, and blood lust.
I took his hand into mine and lead him back into my bedroom, ignoring my voice of reason.

"Lay down," I sniffled. He nodded and listened, laying down in my bed. My conscience shut down completely. I laid down next to him, wrapping my arms around him, and closing my eyes. "Be here when I wake up," I hardly whispered. Tate stroked my hair and sniffled.

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised with a quiver in his voice.

I'll wake up in a reality where none of this happened. Everything is perfect. The sky is every shade of color, the grass feels like silk, the pine trees whisper songs with the chirping birds, and the sun shines down on Tate and I as we hold hands in a meadow. The flowers are all of my favorites. There are blue and black roses, tiger lilies, spider lilies, cherry blossoms magically growing from the ground, and blue forget me nots. Tate would pick one out of the collection of colors and weave it through my hair. We'd kiss like in the movies while a soft rock, grunge song plays in the background. The camera blurs with teenage love and everything is perfect.