There were 11 students in the storeroom.

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I’d locked the door with my key and had managed to drag the small table and chair in front of it.

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Sitting in the darkness, we listen to the intermittent burst of gunfire. My beating heart screams at me to find a way out, and as sweat soaks through my blouse, I try to stay calm.

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I listen so hard for movement in the classroom that my eardrums feel like they’re going to burst.

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The day had started like any other. I’d kissed my husband goodbye in a rush, coffee in one hand, a slice of toast in the other. Had I known this would happen, I would have held him close, stroked his unshaven cheek and told him how happy he made me.

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It is the last week of school, another year of teaching almost complete. Excitement had filled the hallways and my plan after work had been to go shopping for a new swimsuit. This time next week I’d be sipping cocktails in Hawaii. How strange the monotony of a simple day feels right now.

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Moonlight spills into the cupboard from the small web-covered window, which is too small to climb through.

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We’ve been in here for hours—waiting, listening, praying.

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Grace, my A+ art student, whimpers.

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I take her hand, press my finger to my lips, and shake my head.

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Tears spill down her cheeks.

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A deafening crash makes me quake in fear.

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I grab the sharp scissors on the shelf next to me and step forward.

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Gunfire and voices halt my breath.

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The handle of the storeroom twists back and forth, and I cover my mouth with my hand.

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‘It’s the police, is anybody in there?’

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I glance at my students, and another voice calls—a woman. ‘You’re safe. We have the shooter; you can come out.’

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Could it be true? Is it really safe to leave?

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I glance at Grace, and she nods at me.

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We drag away the table and chair, which we’d pushed against the storeroom door, and I place my key in the lock.

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‘We’re coming out,’ I call.

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My hand trembles and Grace takes hold of my arm.

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‘On my count,’ she says. ‘One, two, three.’

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The End

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© Michelle Upton

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