We sit here in the corner  

all because 

of the alarm that rang for a few seconds longer than usual and because afterward, the voice did not say "Please remain calm, this is only a drill."   

We've stopped laughing 

all because

it's not a joke this time; this time there won't be any afterward for some of us.

We've scurried to hide in the darkness

all because 

we know that if we do not become one with the shadows of the room, then we will not be walking out of it.  

My friends, the people that I know best and cherish most, and more than a dozen others huddle in this blanket of silence and shadows(I think the world is quiet here, but, then again, if anyone shifts in their seat or breathes wrong we all flinch because those tiny sounds are mistaken for footsteps or firing or fleeting moments). 

all because

as children, we were taught to huddle and hide before we were taught addition or subtraction or how to write our names. 

My teachers hold several students a few feet away from me, and I see their hands gripping keys and chair legs, eyes narrowed at the loosely locked door, but I also see them shaking as they try to hush the sobbers: "It's alright," "It'll be over soon," "Don't be scared," and other sweet nothings(I can't tell who they’re trying to convince: us or themselves) 

all because

they know for every one of their students who does not emerge from this building, they will have to add another funeral, another memorial, another speech, another weight of guilt to their shoulders.  

A girl I've never particularly gotten along with is having her tears dried and her cries muffled by her friend and a boy I've never spoken to is crouched frozen, wide-eyed, praying 

all because

they've only read headlines, only heard stories, only made jokes about the 'monsters' like the one supposedly roaming our halls at this very moment. 

I turn over my shoulder to see my ex, someone who in another life I'm sure would be my friend, shuddering against the shoulder of his friend; I think our eyes meet for a moment through the mist of darkness and I think maybe we're all sorry for a moment, maybe we have more to say, 

all because 

finding yourself on death's doorstep makes you realize how much of life you missed out on while you were busy holding grudges.  

My best friend is curled up, trying not to gasp too loudly for air through the knot in her stomach, wondering what she did to deserve her fate, 

all because 

bullets don't think or choose the way words could and should. 

I'm kneeling down, holding her tightly as if I fear she might float away if I don't anchor her to this cold, tile, Earth, letting her clutch my hand, and making sure my body is ready to move between her and the door, 

all because

I'd rather she go to college, start a family, chase her dreams, and live her life than I. At least that is the decision I make in this split second I’ve been given. 

I've watched everyone, observed denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance all scattered about this one small corner, and now I sit and wonder how long it has been, 

all because

my heartbeat is reminiscent of a round of shots getting faster and faster and because we feel like we're living on borrowed time, trying to stretch our last seconds into hours, days, years, lives.   

We hear footsteps and my eyes dart from face to face- they know it too- and suddenly, I wish I had more hands because some people don’t have any to hold right now and what they don’t tell you in the articles and news stories is how the scariest part is the silence because in the silence all meaningless noise gains new, deadly definition and just as we realize all the things we mean to say to each other the silence muzzles us but we’re begging: 

not yet- 

please, I’m not done- 

I need to tell him- 

I need to be there for her- 

I need to call my mom- 

I need to make sure my sister knows- 

I can’t-

I’m not ready-  

But those words never escape our mouths,

all because…what?

All because of a prop? All because of a toy? All because someone misspoke, missaw?

All because a boy cried 'gun'. But there never was.   

“What luck!” a teacher exclaims.  

I wonder how many times we'll be 'lucky' before the boy is right.