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The Unnoticed Puddle

A Story of a Life Unlived

By Anna ShadburnPublished 2 years ago 12 min read
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The Unnoticed Puddle
Photo by Andrew Haimerl (andrewnef) on Unsplash

The way the light bent in the puddle reminded me of the distorted world outside of it. Each raindrop it collected seemed to represent small fragments of necessity. Of ambiguity. Of time. I stood transfixed, unaware of the chaotic street around me. I could still hear the woman beside me talking into her discrete earbuds. I could hear the loudness of her neon sneakers juxtaposed with her gray, corporate suit. I could hear the rain steadily fall onto my transparent umbrella, a convenient barrier between me and the others that blurred reality. I could hear the steam emanating from the hotdog cart as it intermingled with the violinist on the opposing corner. But still, my eyes gazed at this puddle and its poetic combination of the colors gathered from the street lights and yellow-painted lines. It wasn’t until the neon-shoed woman bumped into my umbrella that I realized the crosswalk light had changed. And just like that, I was lost in a sea of people who one at a time walked through the curated puddle to cross the street and get on with their day. I never understood why others complained of rainy days. The way the wet streets and the gathered water mirror the details around us that often go unnoticed. The way it brings out the best or worst in people; whether one sees it for its beauty or for its inconvenience.

As I approached the building, I lowered my umbrella. I couldn’t help but smile as I looked up and let the rain graze my face. The sound of the bell verberated in the air and I slowly lowered my gaze to the entryway of Folworth High School. Its old stone walls seemed newer, more revived in the rain. The ivy strands that towered over the door trickled water down to the leaf-covered sidewalk. The intricate archway above the stairs displayed the school motto in weathered etching: “Our Future Begins Here”, and despite its dated obscurity, I always found a small amount of comfort and optimism in those words. Classmates swarmed around me to get inside, some lowering their own umbrellas, others huddled in hooded coats or under their books. It was the last week before fall break and while the hallways echoed with sounds of squeaky shoes, it also seemed to glow with anticipation of a much-needed break. I could sense the excitement of my classmates, some talking of camping and bonfires, others talking of college tours they had planned.

As for me, I had scholarship essays to write--that is on the days that I wouldn’t be working at Waffle Liege down the street. And while making liege waffles for locals and tourists didn’t quite compare to plans of camp adventures or trips to prestigious campuses, I didn’t mind. During downtimes at the waffle shop, Rosalie would even help me with my scholarship essays. She immigrated from Belgium to the United States in the 70’s to study sociology at New York University. She traveled everywhere to write about other people. Other cities. Other cultures. Not only had she become a renowned professor and published author, but she had seen so much of the world. Then one day, she proclaimed “I’ve seen enough. I wish to make the food I love for the city I love.” And just like that, she retired and opened up her waffle shop here in her favorite city, the one in which she found herself all those years ago. I looked up to her so much. I wanted to be her. I wanted to travel the world and find myself in new and exotic places. I knew to get a chance to travel the world and write about it like Rosalie, I would need to get into the right school. And to get into the right school, I needed those scholarships. She had already helped me apply to two. She even used the shop’s stationery so I wouldn’t have to buy my own or acquire stamps.

I opened my locker to gather my books for the first class of the day and I as closed the door, I saw Eleanor standing eagerly in front of me. Eleanor and I had been friends since middle school, and even though her acne had cleared and her bowl bangs had grown out, she still had the same infectious smile and sunny disposition. Her mother left when she was just eleven. Her dad worked without ceasing at his Korean restaurant in West Side to ensure Eleanor had the opportunities he was never allowed. Funnily, he never seemed to realize that Eleanor wanted more than anything to be like him. Her dilemma was to decide whether to go to culinary school and continue his legacy or to go to business school to help him broaden his reach. Eleanor and I made our way up the stairwell to the second floor and to our first class, English, as we discussed college applications and a possible marathon of our favorite fantasy movies, the ones with the scar-headed boy and he-who-must-not-be-named.

The bell rang and we all shuffled into our seats. Being a public school, our classroom was quite crowded. Thirty desks created a compact grid. The only light that didn’t beam from fluorescent bulbs above came from the small sliver of a window next to the classroom door. Mrs. Findlay made her way to the front of the room and the conversations amidst us all slowly hushed. Mrs. Findlay was beloved by most. She was still quite young, maybe in her early thirties, and not jaded like other teachers. I could tell she wanted to be there. To help us in our academic journey. To see us succeed. She brushed her auburn bangs away from her face with a pencil and greeted us with a sincere smile. For the past few weeks, we had been studying ‘Othello’. The Shakespearean tale that cautioned us to be wary of those we trust. To heed jealousy as a toxic danger that seeps into the air without notice. On this particular day, we were discussing the finale and the evil genius of Iago. Mrs. Findlay encouraged us to evaluate Iago’s level of deception compared to his initial intentions. She wrote a question on the board “How is so much chaos caused by the ill intent of one?” She implored us to really delve deeper into the hidden meaning.

The class soon bubbled into a lively debate when echoes in the hallway could be heard. Our discussions of Shakespeare fizzled out as we tried to ascertain the sounds. Perhaps someone dropped their books down the stairwell. Or perhaps there was scheduled maintenance on the old pipes within the walls that went wrong. But the more the discussion died down, the clearer the sounds became. Distinct, loud pops. I looked first to Eleanor, then to my classmates, and finally to Mrs. Findlay. All of us had our jaws agape. It couldn’t be. Could it? Gunshots. Here. At my school. The horrors we had each considered every time we were confronted with it on the news. Mrs. Findlay quickly jumped into motion and turned off all our lights and covered the door window. Just like we had been taught in our countless drills, we all huddled to one side of the classroom, trying to be as out of sight from the window near the door as possible. Some were sitting in quiet, immobile shock. Others muffled their cries through hands clutched over their mouths. Eleanor and I held each other, crouched down in the corner of the room. The cold tile floors were my only sense of reality. With a stoic voice, Mrs. Findlay told us it was going to be okay, though her face said otherwise.

Some of my classmates were calling or texting their parents to let them know what was happening. To tell them that they loved them. Some were texting their friends in other parts of the building. In parts where the sounds were coming from. Eleanor began to shake uncontrollably as she began composing a message to her dad. Through tears, she whispered that she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye. She said that her dad needed her. I did all I knew to do. I grabbed her and held her tighter. The shots began to grow louder and I knew it was getting closer to our room and closer to this crowded bundle of human life who at that moment was reduced to imminent prey. We could now hear screams from neighboring classrooms as the sound of glass seemed to hit the hallway floor. The sounds tore through the air like swords coming to slash our only hope of escape. It became harder for all of us to muffle our cries. Our fears. Our hysteria. And in the moment I looked up from the cold tiled floor, I see the glass from our classroom door shatter onto the floor. My eyes widen trying to lower my head and focus on the odd beauty of the now shattered glass sprinkled onto the floor like glitter or confetti thrown just after a great celebration. No sooner than I try to imagine a different scene, a happier scenario, that the loud pops returned to a deafening level. My heart began to race as my ears rang and I clung desperately to Eleanor, our heads near our knees. Screams from our classroom now were probably warning the next room to brace for impact, a warning we did not discern in enough time. Maybe they’ll have time to get out of its path.

Smoke filled the room and the cacophony of screams now transformed to a mix of moans and cries. I opened just one eye at first and immediately saw a slumped-over body directly in front of me. It’s Oliver West. He was one of the students planning on going camping over fall break. I had heard him talking with Cooper Riley about a potential meteor shower they hoped to see. I wondered at that moment if Cooper was okay or if the idea of camping would be forever tainted by the memory of this day. With both eyes open, I now glance to a flustered, but seemingly unscathed Eleanor. I then glance to my left where a pool of blood has enclosed three students, each motionless. I glance to my right to see Millicent Orby crawl from underneath a motionless body that lay on top of her. Shaking, she slowly pushes the weight of the body off of her own, noticing the immense amount of blood. Soon, I realized the body was Mrs. Findlay. During the shots, she had guarded Millicent and other students out of protection. Her sincere and selfless love for her students had been her final act.

After an indiscernible amount of time, Jahari Davis cautiously stood up and told those of us still alive that we needed to get out before the shooter returned. The shots were growing distant. I had thought through this scenario a hundred times. I think all of us had. Even Mrs. Findlay. She always told us that in the most unthinkable event, when we felt it was safe to flee, to go, and to never look back. Some of us agreed with Jahari. Others were paralyzed with fear. He peered out the now shattered window and quickly motioned that the coast was clear. Eleanor was one of those shaking her head fervently, refusing to leave. I grabbed her face and told her that she had to…for her dad. She soon mustered up the courage and walked with me to the door where at least six others had joined Jahari. We each kept our heads forward, trying to forget the horrible scene on the floor of our now haunted classroom. It wasn’t to disregard those who didn’t make it. It was to not break down. It was a necessity to block it out at that moment. No gunshots were heard, so we soon fled the classroom and made our way for the stairwell. Jahari, who had so bravely assumed the role of leader, opened the door to peer down to the first floor. He soon whips his head back to us to tell us to go up. Then we knew why. Shots reverberated in the stairwell below. The shooter was on the floor beneath us. Soon, students clamored over each other to make their way up the stairs. The deafening sound of the gunfire disoriented me and all I could do was to pull Eleanor up with me as we climbed. Some students escaped back onto the second floor. Some escaped to the third.

Jahari, Eleanor, and I climbed further and finally opened the emergency door to the roof. Of all the places, maybe this one is safe. Jahari quickly looked for something to barricade the door. Eleanor and I made our way to the edge of the building. To motion to someone, to anyone, to send help. The rain still fell, an attempt to wash away the lost innocence from our faces. I searched the street below for any sign of police lights, and just as I saw the cadence of blue light reflect onto the puddles, an indescribably loud bang is heard, then another. Jahari slumped down the rooftop door, a trail of blood following. The door burst open and a scared, angry figure pointed his gun toward Eleanor and me. We collapsed onto the ground into a final plea for mercy. I remember hoping the rain would somehow cleanse this person’s evil. That it would restore his humanity. I thought back to the question Mrs. Findlay had written on the board: “How is so much chaos caused by the ill intent of one?” But at that moment, we became prey to someone we didn’t know for a reason we’d never learn.

On the street below, people still scurry past the school unaware of the horrors within. The neon-sneakered woman passes through the puddle beneath us. The water paints a beautiful picture of reflected street lights, yellow-painted lines, the blue hues of police lights, and now my blood that trickles down from the ivy-covered walls. The violinist walks past the scene, playing a beautiful tune, unknowingly juxtaposing the tragedy inside. The hotdog vendor wheels past the hallowed halls and gives a brief smile as he sees the engraved words “Our Future Begins Here”. Rosalie walks from the waffle to the front of the school, beaming from ear to ear, clutching an envelope--news that I have received a generous scholarship to begin my own future. To travel the world and write about all those details that go unnoticed.

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Anna Shadburn

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