Nonfiction "Scars on My Heart"

Scars on My Heart

It was eight pm Tuesday evening, the day of the Florida shooting, the day that high school kids stopped dreaming of prom or first dates. That day they were immersed in a horrible dream that they couldn't wake from! I had heard the news, Hawaii couldn't shield us from the terrible scars of reality, the world into which we had so naively delivered our children. It was that day, that evening, that all the stories brought home of his threats, taunting and assaults became vividly horrible. I had just finished cleaning the kitchen and was heading into the bedroom to take a shower when my cell phone rang. Never hearing from friends at 8:30 at night, I felt cold dread in shivering drips of sweat begin their journey down my back. Hesitating was only prolonging the wicked clock of time that was ticking against my will.
“Hello what's up? Is everything ok?” I barely breathe as my friend sounds nervous and asks me for a few minutes of time. Of course I had time, although I knew my body wanted nothing more than to run away, drop the phone and forget everything that would rush at me, as bile at the back of the throat, a bitter taste that wouldn't go away.
“My daughter came home and I noticed her eye was droopy. I am afraid she got a black eye although I never had one.”
My sharp intake of breath sucked me in, drawing my ribs together so I could barely breath. I remembered and finally exhaled loudly. Then it became worse.
“I don't know if your daughter told you yet, but he told them he was bringing his bb gun to school tomorrow to kill her!”
“What?” I choked back sobs as it dawned on me and I almost dropped the phone as if it were bleeding. My daughter? The class bully, the one who could be sweet one moment and call me Aunty and give hugs or a picture. He had given her daughter a black eye and threatened my six year old with death within a matter of minutes! What had I done bringing my children into this world? Without them we would be lost and yet it broke my heart that my daughter would go to sleep wondering if he was going to bring the gun?
“I knew he was bullying, but this is beyond, this is really bad!!” I choked on my words and tears ran in streams, washing my sorrow into my mouth and internalizing in anger. My daughter was ok, she would be alright, but this, this was beyond anything a mom could imagine. Hugging my knees to my chest, I cradled the phone and talked to my friend for what seemed like hours, running the what ifs and whys through my head like a damn movie reel. Feeling fortunate that a bb gun could not kill, yet horrified that kindergarten had somehow become a time of homework, sexual assualt and physical trauma. Death threats were casually thrown and what happened? Surely they would send him away from school for at least a day!
My husband called the police as I frantically notified my friends who had daughters that had been victimized several times already by him. Daughters, with sweet faces who came to school with hope for lolipops and my little pony at the end of the day not a black eye, death or being humped from behind when trying to get up off the floor. As I uttered the warnings, it felt as if the voice belonged to someone else. Horror and tears rang through on the other end, as our hushed voices mingled through the phone with futile efforts for comforting words and reassurance. Everything would be ok, he would be sent home the next day of course! Someone threatening to kill their classmate would surely see discipline?
The police arrived, a new trainee in tow, writing with meticulous, shaking hands. Flustered, I kept interrupting my husband as he explained in detail the incidents. He gently shook his head at me as he finished and the policemen laughed.“Mama bear,” he chuckled as I stood with my arms crossed, straight posture and flaring eyes of fire. I was indeed mama bear. As we finished speaking, they had recorded and listened with concern written calmly on their faces. “If you need us to take further action please call us!” They disappeared into the night, the lights of the patrol car becoming a speck as they turned onto the main road. I exhaled loudly and allowed myself to breathe. “Let's go to bed,” my husband spoke gravely as we shuffled back into the yard and up our steps. We fell into bed after closing windows and doors, yet sleep overcame us in heavy, fitful spasms, in which we woke with sweat clinging to our necks in a thick film. It was Valentine's Day, the universal day of love. I laughed bitterly at the irony.
The kids ran to and fro, laughing and chatting excitedly about the day ahead. All I could think about was the outcome and questions in between. Would he be there, would he have a gun and if he did would they check his bags before the worst happened? I couldn't think anymore, I buckled my mind shut and it seemed to echo as the seatbelt clicked. I looked into the back seat at my daughter's smiling face, aglow with hope! She couldn't know that I had scars on my heart, bleeding slowly with the blood of heartbreak. I would not tell her, no not today!