LIBERATION - Prologue

Prologue

May 23

Silence. Tense, dismal silence. The only sound to hear was my thundering heart. I sat in the front seat of my old Jeep Cherokee. Its body was as black as my corrupted mind…though it wasn’t my fault it had gotten that way. From the parking lot, I stared at the mall in front of me, thinking, thinking. I nibbled at my thumbnail, which, at this point, was practically nonexistent. It was as if I hoped that by reducing my thumbnail, I would also diminish my fears. My knee was bobbing anxiously. They would be here any minute. And once they came…

I ran a hand through my already disheveled brown hair. It was only afterward that I noticed how violently my hand was shaking. I glanced at the face in my rear view mirror, wondering where it had all gone wrong. A gangly, seventeen-year-old goof stared back at me, dark blue eyes wide and frightful. A large scar sat on the border of his hairline, a symbol of his many imperfections. His frantic expression was shouting, pleading for me to help him. Unable to maintain eye contact, I shifted my attention to the passenger seat, where a box was sitting in the place of a person. It was an ordinary box, long and narrow and comprised of cardboard, with nothing particularly special about it. But inside the box…what lied within would change my life forever. I shuddered and turned back to the mall.

The parking lot was full on this gray, melancholy day. Macy’s doors opened and closed as the masses poured in and out the mall. There were couples holding hands, families lugging around strollers and bags of merchandise and small children, teenagers looking for a way to pass the time, even if it meant meandering through a mall for the next few hours. So many people. So many innocent lives. But none of them would get hurt. I would make sure of that.

Minutes were flying off the clock on my dashboard. I started to grow concerned, or maybe relieved, that I had overlooked a step in my plan. But no. How could I have? They always came to the mall on Saturday afternoons, they always entered through Macy’s. I had been following them for weeks. I knew their routine. Did they decide to skip the mall today? Or had they just entered through another store? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

I went through my mental checklist, again, to ensure that everything had been arranged. The apology note to my parents was sitting in the place of my dad’s shotgun. They were assholes, and although our relationship had soured in recent years, at the very least, I owed them an apology. When they came home from work, they would have no trouble finding it. The tape that would explain my actions was resting on my bed, waiting to be unveiled. By the evening, every news station in the Tri-State area would be playing it. What would my parents think? What would the country think? I sighed, a deep, despairing sigh, and dispelled the thoughts from my mind. What I was about to do…it didn’t involve my parents or anyone else. It only concerned me and—

My heart skipped a beat after I glimpsed some teenagers, one of them donning a blue-and-gold varsity jacket, heading for the Macy’s entrance. But it wasn’t them. My heart resumed its pace from before, pounding away like a wooden stick against its drum. The mistake offered me no relief. It was only delaying the inevitable. But then again, was it inevitable? For perhaps the thousandth time that day, the debate replayed itself in my mind. It was as if the forces of good and evil were clashing inside of me, fighting for the control of my conscience. Should I do it, should I not do it—I didn’t know. The only thing I did know was this: I wasn’t a criminal. I had never broken the law before…aside from trespassing onto St. Matthew’s and purchasing marijuana, that is. And there was only one year of high school left, only one more year of torment and ridicule. After that, we would all part ways, our paths hopefully destined to never cross again. They would take their football scholarships with them to their prestigious, top-tier schools, and I would go to the local community college. Maybe spending another year with them wouldn’t be so horrible. Maybe…

No, I concluded once again. Another year of torture and humiliation was out of the fucking question. They perceived themselves as gods, superior and almighty, when really they were nothing more than pieces of shit, cruel and malicious. There was no reason for them to treat me, or anyone else for that matter, so terribly. We were better than that, we deserved better than that. And they deserved what was waiting for them in that box. I wasn’t a criminal; I was a martyr, a hero. I wasn’t just doing this for me; I was doing it for Shane and Haley and Louis and every other student they’ve victimized and would ever victimize. Besides, there was nothing left for me in this fucked up, vile world after high school. I would go to a community college and then what? Then what the fuck would I do? I possessed no special skills, no talents. My grades were shit. My SAT score was shit. I had no future, no goals, no ambition. My life had been one giant waste…until now.

I reflected on every beating I ever took, on every snide, condescending remark that ever came my way. Fury boiled my blood, and adrenaline coursed through my veins. It wasn’t my fault this was about to happen. It wasn’t my fault that I turned out this way. They made me like this.  They filled me with so much anger, with so much hate. They fucked me up. They could’ve just left me alone, but no, they had to keep harassing me. Even after I warned them, they just laughed in my face and continued. No, this had to be done. I had no other choice. Or did I?

And then, I spotted them. They were coming from the other side of the parking lot, heading for Macy’s doors, just as I knew they would. My heart froze as I counted seven heads, three more than I had anticipated. There were four guys, two of whom had decided to wear their varsity jackets, and three of the most popular, conceited, gorgeous girls in my class. Whatever, I told myself. The girls deserved it too. They would shun me whenever I tried to talk them, as if I was a disease they were afraid of contracting. They would stand by and watch as I and the others like me were brutalized. They never did anything to stop it. They were just as responsible as the rest of them. 

I wondered if the Columbine shooters felt as I did now. Were they as nervous, as frightened? Or were they as heartless and evil as my targets? I heaved another deep sigh to find the courage to proceed. Hands trembling, I reached for the cardboard box beside me…and from it, I withdrew the shotgun. I rested the barrel on my lap and stared at the instrument of death before me…the instrument that I would soon be wielding. I didn’t know the model of the gun, but I knew it was old. It had passed from my grandfather down to Frank, my own father. It was like a Lowd family heirloom. And now there it was, in my clammy hands, waiting to be used.

The group of seven walked toward Macy’s doors, chatting, laughing. Two of the guys were shoving each other playfully. One jock wrapped an arm around the blonde girl’s shoulders. Another pair had their hands intertwined. To them, this was a Saturday like any other. There was nothing peculiar, nothing awry. These assholes had no idea what was coming for them. They didn’t know these would be the last few moments of their lives. 

I didn’t think it was possible, but my heart rate started to quicken. That lump of muscle hammered against my chest, practically on the verge of bursting through. Anxiety intoxicated me. Nausea churned my stomach. My gaze darted from my targets to the rear view mirror, back and forth, searching those wide, glossy eyes for answers. I sent another nervous hand through my hair and then immediately returned it to the gun, as though I was afraid that it would set itself off if I wasn’t holding it with both hands.

The group of seven entered the mall. This was it. My opportunity. It was now or never. Gulping, I stared down at the weapon. At that moment, as I cradled the shotgun in my hands, it all came down to one thing. The debate was no longer about whether I should do it or whether I had to do it—the question was, could I do it?

I took one last deep sigh.

Fuck it.