ANNIVERSARY

Crisp May morning chills the ears and lips. Sun shines bright without heat. Winter is close.

A normal day.

            Bus turns the corner like it always does. Puff frantically to stockpile nicotine then climb aboard. The usual boring ride to another pointless school day; probably be gone by third period.

            A sly smoke in the vacant lot opposite the school, then up the stairs to start the routine. First bell: roll-call. Compulsory reading (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest – far too cool to be a school book). Second bell: trudge along to music – double practical, could be fun; might stick around. Late-bell ... odd; it’s usually me who’s late, not the teacher.

            Nigel’s out of uniform. Funny guy; been expelled from every school in town – a legend he doesn’t discourage says last time was for jumping out a second-storey window; crazy (Had this routine where he stuck needles in his biceps then flexed the muscles to pop them out. Always carving or burning something into his arms. Smoked some grass with him over the holidays then jumped the fence at the Show. Watched him on this ride looked like a giant Mexican hat – the Gravitron, I think. Passengers caged inside the rim, the sombrero starts to spin, tilting steadily on to its edge. Look up when it’s at its zenith – there’s Nigel, wrong way in his cage, trying to climb over the side. Crazy).

            “Mr Pittorino won’t be in today”, barks Sheila the Hun, our Deputy Principal. “I have a class downstairs, so I’ll be keeping an ear out. Behave yourselves.” She turns on her stiletto heel and leaves, sparks ringing each step down the stairs. Things are looking up: two whole periods to play guitar.

            Alone in the storeroom, lost in distortion and pure volume. “Shit, Sam, you scared me. How long have you been there?” She’s trembling, wide-eyed. “What’s up?”

            “It’s Nigel. He’s got a gun in his bag and he says he’s going to kill himself.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Nigel’s always saying that.

            “It’s true, he showed me.”

            “What kind of gun is it?”

            “A sawn-off shotgun,” she chokes through tears. “He’s got a whole belt full of shells. Daniel, what are we going to do?”

            Fucking hysterical girls; can’t she see he’s just looking for attention? He knows she’s still in love with him. “Go tell him to bring it in here and I’ll do it for him. Fucking idiot”.

            Dismiss her with a chord. Interrupt my creative process with this shit – Jesus.

            Back to work; practise, practise, practise. Getting pretty good too, though I say it myself. Just getting back into a rhythm when, dammit, what do they want now? This time she’s got Fiona with her – Fiona’s in love with Nigel too.

            “Jason’s gone to tell the Principal about the gun. Nigel asked if he can hide it in your bag”.

            “Why don’t you hide it in your bag, Sam?”

            “I might get caught.”

            “And you’d rather I did? Get fucked. It’s his mess; let him clean it up”. The girls skitter out. Now, where was I?

            You lose all sense of time and space when you play an electric guitar loud. Swept along on power-chords and squealing harmonics, you don’t notice the door banging open till Sam run/bounce/stumble/screams through it and trips over a chair. “He shot himself! Fuck! Nigel just shot himself!”

            The guitar hits the floor thud/whine. Through the door running. Spin off collisions on the way to the music room.

            Freeze-frame: black and white infused scarlet; rusty tang of fresh blood leads stench of voided bowels. Fiona, on her knees, cradles Nigel’s head – what’s left of it. With no crown to dam it, a waterfall of blood becomes a steaming red-black lake. Rush of people in and out – mostly out. Screaming girls soundtrack a horror movie. Back away from the doorway; half-turn. Sam!

Start running – strait into Sheila the Hun. “Go into the other music room and wait”. She’s crying. No sparks leave the stilettos when she marches into the death room.

            Otherroomandwaitotherroomandwaitotherroomand ... Right. Okay. Good. Do that: go into the other room and wait; go into a psyche-ward five minutes before medication time. Wails; moans; weeping; howls; sound of someone hyperventilating; zombies walk small circles; a girl chews her hand up to the knuckles; another sucks down doses of Ventolin between sobs, eyes wild and streaming. Can’t believe he did it. Can’t take this; will go insane in here. Back outside.

            Numb surreality. Sun still bright, no heat. “Fuck”, says Gaby, who stood behind Nigel when the world went up. “Blood was pissin’ out the back of his head”.

            “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Fiona launches, claws-first and screaming, at his throat. Rush to pull her away. She collapses, quivering – “I held him in my arms ... I held him in my arms”.

            Peripheral blue: two police walk past and into the now empty classroom. “Jesus,” echoes through the door. “He did a good job of it”.

            He sure did.