A cold, windy day in December and no one wants to be here. It has been a long month. Too many paid the price for one man’s mistakes. There he is the man of the hour. Lying in his flag draped coffin. His final resting place yet to be determined.
This all started one Saturday in a place no one expected anything to happen. A small country college. Nothing ever happens there. John Damon was working the second shift as classes were about to end. He was sitting in the vehicle trying to stay awake. He didn’t.
A vehicle pulled up to the front of the campus and a man walked out of the back of the van. He was camouflaged and carrying a weapon. John didn’t see him since he was sleeping. The first shot rang out. It hit a young woman who was walking to her car.
John woke up quickly. He didn’t know what to do and panicked. Instead of using the cell phone to call the police he ran toward the shooter. He was struck in the right shoulder, he fell to the ground.
The gunman stood on his wound. “Stay down.” As he kept firing into the people scattering for their lives. John just laid there in pain and afraid for his own life. His body growing cold he passed out. When he woke up the gunman was lying next to him, dead.
A sniper’s rifle took him out from several hundred yards away. Someone else had phoned the police and soon the SWAT Team had arrived. John began weeping he couldn’t move but, he could see the first victim lying 20 yards away. The medics picked up John. “Take her first. Take her first.” John shouted desperately. “We can’t she’s already gone. We couldn’t get to her soon enough.” the medic responded.
John lay on the cart being wheeled from place to place all he could see was her face. He went through surgery to remove his bullet and repair the damage. All he saw was her face. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. That poor girl. If only he hadn’t dozed off.
Months later, John was in rehab when a man walked in. An older gentleman with a box in his hands. A tear upon his face. “Mr. Damon?” he asked. “Yes, I am.” John replied unsure of who this was. Maybe another police investigation.
“Sir, my name is David Kelly. My daughter was the first to be shot. She was only 19. We were going through her things and we found this. I thought you might want it back.” He handed John a picture. A picture of John and the girl. A tear ran down his cheek. “I’m so sorry.” John cried as he wept. “My daughter wrote of you in her diary. She said you helped her one night when we were out of town.” “Yes, she broke down. All I did was fix her car.” John said. “She said you didn’t even want to pose for the picture when she thanked you. How shy you were.” “I’m so sorry.” John wept.
Then man gave John a hug. “That’s from my wife. She wanted to thank the man who helped my daughter when no one else would stop.” Mr. Kelly quickly walked out as John lie in his bed crying softly into his pillow. “Why? Why didn’t I die too?” he kept crying out.
Months later he was back at work. Many people looked at him differently. He too was ashamed of what happened and wished he could work somewhere else. One night after work he stopped at the liquor store. He bought a bottle of whiskey to ease his pain.
He quickly drank it when he got home. Tears still running down his face. The phone rings. “Hello” he answers drunkenly. “I know what you did. You fell asleep.” the voice whispered. Before he could say how sorry he was they hung up.
For the next several months every night he got drunk and the phone rang. He could still that face in his dreams. He struggled to drink her out of his mind. Not too mention the many others who all died because he fell asleep. Why did he survive? Why was he still here? “WHY?” he would scream into the phone. No one answered.
One night he simply had enough and drank one bottle more than he should have. He wrote a long letter explaining and apologizing for what had happened. He spoke about the phone calls and how he wished he could fix what he had done. He did in a single shot.
The police responded to a shot’s fired call to his address from someone who was walking by. They bust down the door to find John lying on the floor. Blood rushing from his head. The note lying on the table next to the body.
During the investigation into his death the police discovered one thing. John’s phone never worked in the last year. He hadn’t paid the phone bill. No one knows if John was becoming crazy or if he was just dreaming it. In the closet they also found a box of clippings. The gunman was John’s son. The gun he used was John’s.
No comments:
Post a Comment