HERE’S THE thing.
No, the thing is….
No, definitely this is the thing.
So here’s the thing.
My name is Collin Williams.
If the name sounds familiar, there’s good reason for it. For the last few months, my name has been all over the place. Everywhere you looked. On the news. In newspapers. On cable. On the net. You really couldn’t miss me, even if you tried.
This I know for sure, because God knows I did try. But I couldn’t escape me. Or get away from me.
In many ways.
In all ways.
In every way.
You see, I am one of the ones who was there when it happened. When it happened.
I am one of the lucky ones who made it out and survived.
“Lucky” ones.
“Survived.”
At least that’s what they keep telling me.
Here’s the thing, though. Sometimes I don’t feel so lucky. I can’t figure out why I made it and others didn’t.
“Others.”
Nate.
Oh, Nate.
It’s been rough. For me. My family. My friends. Everyone.
It’s the mirror that tells the story. That tells my story. The story of that night.
The face I see looking back at me is not the one I had before it happened.
I look tired.
Still.
Like I just pulled off a month-long all-nighter.
All the way tired. Stressed-out. Worried. Scared. Angry. Thin. Older.
My hair looks pretty awful because I don’t care enough to do anything about it, and my skin looks even worse.
It’s in my eyes that you see it the most, though. They’re eyes that have seen too much. That know too much. That have seen things that nobody should ever see. Ever. Things I wish I’d never seen.
Things I wish I could unsee.
Have you ever seen a war film where they show the soldier after the war ended and he’s back home where he should feel safe, but there’s always a close-up of his eyes looking all sunken and haunted and he seems to be seeing something nobody else sees? Something beyond what everyone else is seeing?
Something that’s not in the frame. Something that’s not there.
Ghosts of the past, maybe?
That’s me. Those are my eyes when I look in the mirror.
A little less now, for sure. It’s getting better. But still.
Mom always tells me that eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s the case, then I think my soul has been seriously damaged. Messed up. Fucked up. Permanently, maybe.
Mom also tells me that I’m like her: we don’t like to talk about ourselves; we don’t want to talk about the bad things that happen to us with others. We worry, she says, that others won’t understand. Or don’t really want to understand.
Or maybe we worry that they’ll understand all too well.
I know that talking about what happened is supposed to make me feel better. But I seriously doubt that.
Honestly, I’m not sure if anything’s going to make me better. Or if I ever will be. Completely anyway.
I’m not even sure I should be.
I’m no longer Collin. I’m no longer the guy just about to start his senior year in high school and worried about college. I’m no longer the guy I thought I was before it happened. I’m him. The guy. That guy. The kid that people point at. And whisper about. And feel sorry for. Or don’t feel sorry for, as the case may be.
But since everyone wants to know about it.
Here it is.
The story of that night. Of what happened a little over two months ago.
And then… what happens after.