based off a real event! i am writing this on assembly thursday, however the story continues till tuesday which hasn't happened yet (at the time of writing) so that part is fake but also just a possibility of what has really happened.

now, for context. it's thursday, prom is saturday, and the spooky guy (you'll know who) was introduced Monday of this week. this all occurs at a public school, and again, is just a possibility (that hopefully doesn't occur) (you'll see why)

however pt. 2, this is a possibility and since it hasn't happened yet and it probably won't, but there is a chance that what i am about to write will come true. please read at your own accord. viewer discretion is advised. (the fancy words for trigger warning)

now, for the story (as told from my perspective, me being sarah. enjoy!)

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It was your typical day at Long Beach Highschool. (name changed for privacy) The sky was the same everlasting shade of blue, an as always, cloudless. You could practically smell the words 'Prom Season!' and feel the ever-present AP testing tension. The week had started out rough, as all Mondays did, the starting of AP's taking a toll on most of my friends. I lucked out, and didn't take an AP. Thank goodness.

Now, it is no longer Monday, no longer my easy 3 class long day of English, German, and Music, instead it was the long, tedious 4 class day of Biology, P.E., Math, and Art. It wasn't exactly bad, but nobody really enjoys taking Biology after lunch and Math right before, not to mention P.E. is literally my first class after lunch. What's more of a workout, holding in my lunch or holding a push-up? Nine out of ten scientists can't tell.

I was sitting in my perfect little front-row-by-the-window seat, doodling on my already completed test. Tests weren't hard for me, and I usually lucked out and had my phone. Not this time. I was practically writing a full length novel in my head, connecting plot to word to sentence until the shapeless blob of thought in my head reached an enjoyable medium of brain novellas. That's how most of my math classes were spent already, quickly finishing whatever we were doing and then re-writing the Twilight Saga to not be a book about angsty teenage vampires and love sick werewolves in my head, and today was no different, or so I thought. No, today we had a senior waltz in our tiny little freshman only math class and whisper to my teacher, who nodded and went back to his Star Wars Facebook page.

Normally, the student-teacher gossip would have me paying little to no mind at all about it, but today I was so bored my brain latched onto the idea I couldn't hear and forced me to find out what happened. Of course, my brain doesn't know everything, and I was suddenly supplied with 'Sarah, his wife made BGT!' in which I had to tell myself 'No Sarah, this is not a time to reference your dumb obsession with Britains Got Talent and the undeniable bromance of Simon and David. Not now.' Naturally, my brain hates my logic and I was spewed with a plethora of 'what do you have against bgt?!' before my subconscious realized that I was in fact talking to myself.

Now, after I've reread my countless amounts of trash fiction, we all can come to the conclusion that a bored-out-of-her-mind Sarah isn't always the most logical one, (and in a slightly morbid way the sadistic one) and that version of myself started hinting at what if something bad happens?

Now, slightly-sadistic-bored-out-of-her-goddamn-mind Sarah was not thinking 'what if we all died right now', more like 'what if we got robbed, where could i hide, how tall is this building if i jump from the second floor', a less worrying alternative. However, the possibility of something bad happening was almost zero, we couldn't even go to school without a complete i.d. check and interrogation. Public schools these days.

Yet my odd prediction was actually plausible because the words I couldn't hear in math reached my ears in P.E., and kinda freaked me out. You see, P.E. isn't too bad when your coach doesn't know how to run a lap by herself and your class is like your family and have seen most of them at least half naked- marching band is a weird sport, don't judge- so every team you are on is like 'which clan am i in?'. (currently i am on the drumline, mixed but mostly high brass baseball team. our motto is we don't care but you do. real motivational. also, for some odd the world decided to put all three ryans on my team. like can you not)

My team was relatively fun, very gossipy and had a surprising amount of medical knowledge amongst them- something that will be relevant on Friday. (if you couldn't tell this part was written on Friday #sarahdiesonfriday) (totally not a spoiler) (whoops). The gossipy part is crucial, because how would I know about half the things that go on in my school without them.

We were doing our typical half-assed baseball spiel, and talking between ourselves as we waited to bat.

"Did you hear about the shooter?" Justin murmured. Shooter?!

"Yeah, the dude who's gonna shoot up the school of Jordyn doesn't win prom queen? That's some wild shit man." This Ryan said. That Ryan nodded in agreement and Them Ryan had a faint trace of horror on his face. I stood there, a little dumbfounded, but overall not too fazed. It's just a rumor, right?

This Ryan saw my confused face and started to explain. "Basically, some random junior has a gun and he's gonna shoot up the school if his friend doesn't win prom. It's probably fake." Them Ryan was still pale, always the superstitious, and That Ryan had already snapped back to Earth and was toying with the baseball.

Over the next few days, the rumor had come up around 90 times, not that anyone was counting. Even a few teachers brought it up, ranging from 'Get your work done today so that your sub on Monday doesn't have to collect as much' to 'It's just a rumor, get back to work.' My friend group was divided, half of them desperately looking for sick people to cough on them, and the other half not caring in the slightest. Of course, just like my friend group, the school became divided.

Anyone who had even mentioned the gun incident was avoided like the plague, students writing their wills instead of essays. At lunch we sat in prayer circles instead of gossip circles and the bands that usually played at lunch switched from the dumb stereotypical pop to the most depressing emo sounding songs imaginable.

Some students drew X's on their hands, others crosses and some targets. The stress was unimaginable. On Friday, half the school didn't show up. I did, there's no way in hell my mom would let me miss school, and I kid you not all of my senior friends were discussing escape plans and defense ideas for prom, which happened to be the next day.

I lived that entire week with my fingers crossed and a silent prayer on my lips. When I left school, nobody said goodbye. They said good luck.

During P.E. on Friday, my throat closed up, and when it opened, my heart started pounding at an alarming rate. An SVT attack. I grabbed the nearest person, That Ryan, and pressed his hand against my chest. He paled and grabbed my hand, and practically dragged me to the nurse.

She took my pulse, 230 bpm. 270 is fatal.

It's all a bit hazy, I remember an I.V. going in and a few questions thrown, vaguely remembering the name Frankie. I ended up in the hospital all of Friday, however I was released that night.

Over the weekend, I monitored social media like a hawk, checking all statuses on Saturday during prom. On Sunday, I made sure everyone got back home safe.

From what I could tell, Jordyn won prom queen.

We were safe.

On Monday when we returned, only a fourth of my school remained. My third period teacher ushered the ten of us that showed up into the auditorium, where we met with the other thousand students that showed up. The lights went dark, and the stage lit up. My principal, Mr. N., took the stage.

"Now, to begin, I would like to say that everyone here is safe. It's just a rumor, and prom went very smoothly and we didn't have any incidents. Next, our varsity baseball team made finals and our dance recital is this Thursday! Remember, it's a great day to be a-"

He was cut off by a loud 'bang!' and he crumpled to the floor like a marionette doll whose strings had been cut. A new figure took the stage and grabbed the mic from my dead principals hands.

"Now, to begin, I would like to say that everyone here is not safe. Welcome to hell, starring me, your host! Any student who fails to please me receives the bullet. Anyone who calls for help will be shot immediately. Que?"

The auditorium was horribly silent.

"I said, do you understand?" We all echoed in hollow, empty agreement.

I watched in silent horror and fascination as a girl called 9-1-1, and I don't recall when I started crying, but it must have been close to when he grabbed the phone and smashed it, then shot her dead.

Over the next three hours, there were 57 escape attempts, 0 escapes, and 68 deaths.

I was clinging to a random kid next to me, both of us sobbing. He made us do things. Each time he called a kid to the stage we all knew what was coming: death or horrific entertainment.

I had already gone up. He made me dance with him, he whispered sweet nothings in my ear. I was disgusted. He made me cut my palm and mix it with three other kids so that we would all remember. So that we would all have the memory of the cruelest black mask in history.

Some of the other acts were worse than mine, however. Some people were publicly humiliated, others beaten, some singing and dancing, some dodging bullets, you get the gist. Horrible.

Then came the only chance we had to escape: ballroom dancing. As I stumble-waltzed, I whispered to my partner, "distract him when the sixth act goes up and I'll sneak up behind him. Pass it on."

As each person danced and switched partners, the word got around until a good portion of people knew it. Enough to make it work.

On the sixth act, a duo of poor girls having their hair yanked, a bunch of kids started hooting and hollering like they were at a concert. He got up, angrily, and marched himself over there, too distracted by rage to notice anyone coming.

Me and the random kid I had grabbed earlier had broken off one of the metal seats and held it high and-

crash.

He fell to the floor, eyes rolling back in his head. The hall erupted in cheers, and maybe 39 9-1-1 calls were made.

On that Monday, 1,012 students entered the auditorium. On Monday, 909 students left. 213 were in need of some sort of medical assistance.

And, on Tuesday, nobody who was there on Monday said anything.

Or maybe, because in my friend group, the 20 of us that came left with 8.

They held a ceremony and whatnot, arrested the guy and put him towards the death penalty, however the cut on my hand and the scars on all of our minds screamed that he should be ruined.

They didn't do that.

We never heard about it again, nor do we talk about it. It's been a week.

I am a survivor.

end

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