Detention… again.
Same story, different day. I was in detention about once a week for tardiness. I wonder if they’d still be so eager to dole out punishment if they knew it was because my dad had left last year for cigarettes and then had never came back. Or the fact that my mother was an alcoholic, leaving me to fend for myself and find my own way to and from school on most days.
But I guess everyone had a sad story to tell. These days, misfortune was a regularity, and any blips of happiness were few and far in-between.
I sat quietly as the other high school students filtered in. A couple of jocks in letterman jackets took seats in the back close to two popular girls that had never looked my way before. They cackled wildly as the flirting and jokes began. They probably didn’t even notice that I existed, breathing the same oxygen in the room as them. I was more like a coat rack in the corner than a person.
I pulled up my hood and tugged at the drawstrings, retreating into my shell, and just hoped for the next two hours to go by as quickly as possible.
After another minute the bell rang. A mass exodus of kids passed by the windows on their way to the buses out front. A couple of them stopped to point and laugh at us. Brad, one of the jocks, gave them the finger causing them to scurry off to the parking lot.
After a few more minutes of the kids in the back talking about the game on Friday, Mr. Matheson finally strolled in. He stomped to the front desk and slammed a stack of folders on its surface with a loud smack, effectively silencing the chatter.
He looked at each of us, his eyes were wild and bloodshot. He looked rather disheveled, not like his normal put together self. Mr. Matheson was the 11th grade history teacher. He was ex-military and typically very no-nonsense and straight to business. He definitely didn’t appear to be his normal self today.
“Alright kiddos, today is going to be a little different. We’re going to have a little fun in detention this time, is that alright with everyone?” His grin was borderline wicked, I didn’t like where this was going.
“Sure, Mr. Matheson, I love fun.” Brad joked, causing the others to giggle.
“Shut your mouth Peterson. You smartass. You know I’ve seen you in detention more than any other kid in this school. If it were up to me you’d have been out of here a long time ago. But you just keep scoring those touchdowns don’t you?” The teacher beamed a dry erase marker right at Brad, which he caught just before it struck his face.
“See. Those hands keep the town happy. But let’s see if you can continue to be lucky huh?”
Mr. Matheson pulled a revolver from his waistband and slapped it on the desk. The entire room gasped and then fell silent. My heart thundered in my chest and my legs tingled with the urge to run.
“You see guys, the feds found my safehouse. The collection of guns and an entire hill of Columbian bam-bam. It’s hard to make it in this economy with a teacher’s salary, so I reverted to some business practices I saw in my time with the military.”
He locked the door and paced the front of the room like a shark circling its prey.
“I bet they’ll be here any minute to pick me up.” Mr. Matheson loosened his tie and tossed it on the floor.
“It’s life for me boys. I got some priors I’m not proud of, hid them from the school board of course. No chance of parole, no siree, not me.”
He cackled manically then, causing us all to jump.
“So, we’re going to go out with a bang. Let’s have a little fun. This is something I picked up back in Nam. You ever heard of Russian Roulette?”
He eyed each of us hungrily, none of us dared to utter a sound.
“I’m sure you have, and we’re going to play it. Peterson, you’re up first. I’ve been dying to shut up that mouth of yours.” He strode to the desk and emptied all the bullets from the cylinder except one.
“Come on up Peterson.” He said as he spun the cylinder and cocked back the hammer.
“Suh-sir… please.” Brad stammered.
“Now come on, don’t be shy, it’s your time to shine.”
Brad didn’t move. Mr. Matheson stomped to the back of the room and held the gun up to his head.
“Okay, I’ll do it for you this turn.”
“No no no! Please sir!”
Click.
“Oooo, your luck continues Peterson. Who’s next?” He eyed each of us, almost salivating with glee.
Brad broke down and wept at his desk.
“Oh fine, you bunch of babies. I’ll go next.” He put the barrel in his mouth and winked at us before pulling the trigger.
Click.
“And the teacher lives! Woooo! What a rush!” He jumped up and down giddy with joy.
It was sick, and I wanted to vomit.
“How about you Ms. Newman? You’ve got yourself a big mouth as well. Come on up here prom queen.”
Jessica Newman shook her head feverishly, closing her eyes as if to wish what was happening away.
“Oh, come now, let’s show a little gumption ladies. You’re all made so soft these days. It’s really such a travesty.”
She started to cry, erupting little panicked squeaks from her lips.
“No?… Okay I’ll do it for you as well then.” He sighed and came to stand next to her, pressing the barrel of the gun against her blonde hair.
“Ready?”
She wailed loudly as he pulled the trigger.
Click.
“Oooooo, hahahaha. We’re getting close now boys! I can feel it. Only three more chances and one has to be the bullet.”
Jessica’s head fell to her desk with a thud. She had fainted in terror.
Mr. Matheson danced around the desks for a moment to a silent song in his head. His arms drifted from side to side as he leapt and twisted like a figure skater.
My mouth was dry, I was so afraid. I kept my eye on the gun, the chrome glinted in the light, threatening death.
“Three students left. Can I get a volunteer? Who’s going to step up, huh?” He scanned the room, pointing with his index finger.
Suddenly, through the horror somehow, I came up with an plan.
“I’ll… I’ll go.” I croaked.
“Well I’ll be! Mr. Johnson! Who would have thought? You know, it’s always the quiet ones. Come on up my boy!”
I slowly stood from my desk and walked to the front of the classroom on shaky legs. The room spun as bile rose in my throat. I forced it down and came to face the deranged teacher.
“I’m proud of you son.” He slapped my shoulder heartily and shoved the revolver into my hand.
The cold steel felt alien in my grasp, it felt wrong, I hated it.
“Go ahead.” He ushered me eagerly.
I cocked back the hammer and brought it to my mouth. The barrel tasted like pennies against my tongue.
Mr. Matheson nodded his head, urging me to pull the trigger as a twisted smile curled across his face.
I put my finger on the trigger but at the last second enacted my plan.
I pulled the gun from my mouth and pointed it right between his eyes. He didn’t have time to react before I fired.
A deafening bang filled my ears as smoke and gun powder stung my eyes. Mr. Matheson dropped to the floor in a heap as the other students screamed.
His forehead had been canoed from the impact of the round, brain matter and blood trickled down the chalkboard behind where he had stood just a moment ago.
I dropped the gun and fell to my knees. I was too numb to cry, but I wanted to.
Brad made a dash for the door but just before he got there men in body armor crashed through it.
An entire team in black with FBI patches swarmed the room.
A man in a suit approached me and went to one knee, placing an arm on my shoulder. “It’s alright son, you’re safe now.” I broke down and wept in his arms as he helped me to an ambulance outside.
We all gave our accounts to the authorities. It was all over the news for a week. We’d been excused from the rest of the school year, allowed to do our homework, and testing remotely from home.
The parents sued the schools for negligence in the background check they performed on Mr. Matheson and won a huge settlement. Jessica moved to another state, and Brad was never heard from again. Something about getting his G.E.D. and going to work at the family business.
My mother felt so guilty that she gave up drinking. She’s been sober for three months now and I couldn’t be more proud.
I still had PTSD. Sometimes I’d dream about the taste of that gun in my mouth, and sometimes when I dreamed I had pulled the trigger on myself.
Therapy was helping. But sometimes… sometimes I wish I’d have done it.