The Art of Hero Worship

CoolDudes Publishing Pty
Ltd

The Art of  
Hero
 Worship

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Copyright © 2016 Mia Kerick

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the sole author

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Typeset in Times New Roman 12pt.

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Pop-pop-pop….

At this point he’s in the back of the
theater, and the shooting hasn’t slowed down at all. Gunshots ring
out steadily in the shadowy darkness… always in sets of three,
letting me know where he is. I’m scared… so fucking scared… but not
too scared to wonder what I did to deserve this special little
slice of hell.

And I’m frozen… I can’t even move enough to
swallow my spit. I know what I have to do—I have to look for Ginny,
but I can’t since I’m frozen solid, like a leg of lamb in a walk-in
freezer.

Pop-pop-pop… pop-pop-pop….

“I’ve been shot! Oh, sweet Jesus, I’ve been
shot!”

Earsplitting blasts of sound—one, two,
three. The gunshots have a life and a plan—
no, a mission
—all
their own, to maim and kill by ripping through the flesh of
everyone in this theater. I’m panting and sweating and wishing to
God I knew how to pray because I’d
so
pray right now.

And as suddenly as it started, the shooting
stops.
Is it over?
With the utmost caution, I exhale the
breath I’ve been hanging onto so jealously… as if part of me fears
I’ll never get the chance to take another. But one more wary breath
moves in and out, and I know I have to get hold of myself so I can
find her. Because it’s over now…. yes, I think maybe it’s ov—

Pop-pop-pop….

Life-sucking and blood-spattering and
gurgle-inducing, evenly spaced sets of three that are becoming so
horribly
predictable. I brace myself for the impact because
I just
know
the next pop is going to come with excruciating
pain that explodes in my head or my back or, if I’m lucky, my ass.
Or, if I’m not so lucky, in all three places, one right after
another.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be
happening.

Is nineteen too old to want my mommy?

“Get down! Get on the floor!” Somebody
yells.
Too late for that.
I’m already flat on the floor in
the narrow space between the rows of seats; my head is bleeding all
over the arm it’s resting on….
My left arm? My right arm?
Somebody else’s arm?
Not so sure.
Not so sure it
matters.

“Don’t shoot me—please don’t—”

Pop-pop-pop….

“Put the gun down! Put it do-o-own!”

Pop-pop-pop….

I belly crawl forward a few inches and reach
around in search of Ginny’s hand but when I pat the floor all I can
feel is a pool of blood that wasn’t there the last time I checked,
and then there’s this cooling mound of flesh in its center.

“I don’t know what to do….” These words
escape on a single breath followed by a few sharp coughs from an
elderly man.

Pop-pop-pop… pop-pop-pop….

Annoying cough… forever suppressed.

Right after the second round of shots, when
everybody had started rushing around, all frenzied and scrambling,
I’d lost track of Ginny… in fact, I’d lost track of
everything
. Maybe because it had suddenly sunk into my
stunned brain that this place was now a death chamber.
My
death chamber.

It seems like so much time has passed since
the first bullet whizzed past my right ear… that for a month or a
year—or for my entire lifetime—I’ve been waiting for the gunshots
to stop.

A tiny voice inside my head suggests that
I’ve been in this living hell for less than five minutes,
maximum.

Pop-pop-pop….

Right after the shooting had started, but
before I’d lost Ginny, I caught a glimpse of the gunman’s
silhouette against the bright stage. He’d seemed huge in his dark
baggy clothing. He towered over the audience, but it probably just
seemed that way because he was pointing a gun at us. I recognized
the shooter from seeing him around campus. And when I saw his face
profiled in the light—the bulging forehead, prominent nose, and
receding chin—a name had sped through my brain, but soon the name
was as lost to me as my girlfriend’s lax hand.

Pop-pop-pop….

The gunman doesn’t say a word; his weapon
does the talking. And the deafening popping sounds are closer
again, like the gun has something it wants to say to
me
personally
… something like, “You’re gonna die today,
Jason.”

“I’m gonna push on your back really hard and
I want you to squeeze as much of your body underneath the chairs as
you can, got it?” The voice seems to come from a million miles
away, but it’s coming from right behind me. On top of me, really. I
feel his breath on the back of my neck.