A Sound of Thunder and the Smell of Sulphur

*Please note: There are graphic depictions of violence and suicide in this story. It is inspired by, but radically deviates from a play called Free by David Grant and Lord of the Flies by the inimitable William Goulding. Thanks for reading.* 

Nothing can ever prepare you for your first time firing a gun. I’ve seen enough action movies to think that I’d be ready, but I wasn’t. Before it had even fully clicked that I’d sent a real bullet through Liam’s chest, there was a sound of thunder and the smell of sulphur. The sound gave new meaning to deafening. It was the kind of loud you feel in your bones, that singes the end of your nerves. And the smell, a strange almost metallic, deeply smoky smell. I looked around the room, my arm still stinging from the recoil. Every one of my classmates was hiding beneath their desks. They were looking at me but would avert their eyes if I looked at them. I could sense their fear. What’s weird is that I was probably more afraid than them. Ben was still in the seat closest to the door and the door was still locked. I saw him look over, caught his eye, and then saw him look back at the floor. He was crying. I stood still as the ringing in my ears subsided to a thin buzzing. The door handle rattled. And again. There was a loud thud as a mass of weight, probably Mr. Wilkins hurled himself against the door. Shouting outside. Inside, quiet, with a touch of ringing. I looked around again, seeing downcast eyes and shaking hands. The sound against the door was louder now, the hinges groaning under the pressure. Thud. Thud. The door was a drum, beating a hollow sound that reverberated deep inside of my heart, to the place where I was supposed to feel something, the place that had gone away because of him, not that I could blame what I had done on someone else, but it was true. It had to be true. Inside, everything was gone; there was no me left. I turned the barrel towards myself, placing it inside my mouth, feeling it burn everything, tongue and cheeks, and essence, like when you have a slice of pizza right out of the oven. I couldn’t think of the future anymore. He’d taken it from me. I’d taken it from me. It was a mistake, an accident. But who’d believe it? The sounds at the door were louder now, the drumbeat a part of me, thud thud thud thud until I couldn’t take it anymore. I closed my eyes and squeezed. 

5 Minutes Earlier

The laughter around the room was different now. It was uneasy, like when someone tells a joke you aren’t comfortable with, but you laugh because you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. Liam looked around, fully in control of the moment. 

“Don’t look so sad, Spencey-Wencey. Just jokes, bro. Ain’t your fault that your old man had a taste for the sausage! Least you got a stepdaddy now. Just have to hope he isn’t like your real daddy.”

More uneasy laughter. I felt something turning inside of me, a slow revolution, an unlocking. I was apparently the last on Liam’s list today, but he was saving his best for me. I stared at my desk, reminding myself that reality was just an illusion, that everything happening right now, what had happened last night, the things that would happen eventually… it was all something inside of my head. None of it was real. I shuddered, the thought of reality becoming too much to bear. Liam stood over me, smiling. 

“What is it, Spence? That last one cut a little too deep? Shit man, sorry about that. Maybe one day you can grow up to just like your old man and leave whatever shitty family you’ve got? Or maybe you should just pray to God that you’ll ever even get laid.” 

He kept looking around the room and hearing the nervous chuckles. I wondered why they would do that; did they really think he was being funny? Ben did, but Ben was an idiot. Plus, he was scared shitless of Liam, so he would laugh at Liam no matter what he did. The rest of the boys in the class were kind of in the middle and didn’t really care. Like the girls, they didn’t really notice me until I was in the middle of something.

 I looked up and stared right at him: “God is dead.”

I figured that would shut him up, hearing a bit of old Nietzche. Remind him that while he might be big and strong, he was still an idiot. He laughed. 

“The fuck you talking about?” He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I moved away. He laughed again, and this time, he grabbed the back of my chair and pulled it out from under me in a movement that was too fast to comprehend. I landed on my ass, and this time, the laughter from the rest of the class was real. Like, America’s Funniest Home Videos real. Laugh at my pain, right? I sat in a heap, feeling my face turn bright red, every one of their eyes looking at me, hungry for entertainment, for something to occupy the vacuous spaces where their brains should have been. I stood up, and Liam pushed the chair over to me, imitating a gentleman seating a lady. 

“After you, mademoiselle,” he said in a grotesque French accent. I kicked the chair away and walked over to my bag that was in the corner of the classroom. I knew what was inside. No one else did. They weren’t supposed to know. But now, I thought it might teach them something. That’s how people learn, right? When something comes right up to them, right in front of their face, and makes them take notice? I remember hearing about Hurricane Katrina when I was younger and wondering why they hadn’t protected the city better. Now, I know why; it’s because we are reactive, us humans. We’ll never act until we have to. Why would the kids in my class be any different? Maybe I could teach them a lesson. Just a quick one. No one needed to get hurt. I went into my bag and felt the cool metallic barrel of the 45’. Earlier that morning, I’d snuck into Rob’s room and took it. It was in a safe, sure, but it wasn’t hard to crack. The moron had used his birthday. But the irony of a wife-beating drunk taking precautions when it came to his firearm wasn’t lost on me. Truth be told, I took it so I could use it on him. If it ever got as bad as it did last night again. Change of plans. I shoved it into the back of my jeans, like they did in the movies, and turned around. Liam had given up on me and was back to talking to Jessica, who, for some unknown reason, actually seemed to enjoy his presence. That she, a smart and pretty girl, would actually want to talk to a guy like him, a guy who made other people feel small, and would probably try to fuck her and then never call her again… it was beyond understanding. But so were a lot of things in this world. I took a step towards him.

“Hey, Liam,” I said, trying to make myself sound intimidating. “You should say sorry for what you did. I’ve never done anything to you. Not once. So why mess with me? Just say sorry and we can move on.” 

Liam stood up and walked towards me, his football sweater absorbing the glare of the fluorescent lights above us. He got close enough to me that I could smell his cologne. 

“I own you,” he whispered. “You’re nothing. You’re just a beta piece of shit. No one is going to remember anything about you once they leave this place. You’ll never amount to anything. Me? I’m going to be somebody. So why don’t you sit the fuck back down and shut your mouth? You’ll do better in life if you are seen and not heard.” 

One of the girls, Tessa, who was sitting close enough to catch the whispers, winced. Liam turned to walk away, and that was when it all changed. It wasn’t just that I heard Rob in his voice, that condescending, hateful tone, but at that moment, he might have actually been Rob. I can’t remember. I reached into my belt and pulled the gun out, pointing it at him. Everyone in the classroom, except Liam, gasped. He stopped and turned around, with a smile on his face, expecting me to be flipping him off or something. His eyes changed when he saw it. He put his hands in the air, and for the first time in a long time, his eyes were afraid. He was about to say something when someone in the class moved their chair, producing one of those loud screeches that would make Mrs. Fortino freak out about if she were here. I can’t tell you why, but that squeak made me flinch. Well, to be accurate, it made me squeeze. It happened in less than a second, and before I could take it back, I saw Liam holding his chest, crimson seeping between his fingers, his eyes empty, his mouth open.

20 minutes earlier

It didn’t take long for the people in the class to settle in. It was clear that neither Mrs. Fortino nor a supply teacher was about to show up. And once Liam locked the door, it became clear that nobody was about to leave. Unless they wanted to challenge him, which probably wasn't going to happen. He was sitting beside Ben, watching some stupid football video on Instagram, fully embodying every stereotype that ever existed about dumb jocks. On that note, the rest of the people in the class weren’t exactly defying generalization either: the girls were taking selfies, sending Snaps, and giggling to each other. A bunch of the boys in the class had connected to a cracked version of Counter-Strike that worked on the school’s antiquated wireless system. A few of the music geeks had their headphones in and were sending each other links.

The only person I felt a connection with was Aaron, who sat a few seats to my left. He had his nose buried in a book. I snuck a peek and saw that it was 1984. A classic, to be sure. I’d read it a few years ago when the stuff with my dad was at its peak. I’d learned to drown out the shouting, the breaking of plates and wine glasses, and the inevitable starting of my dad’s car as he went out. Eventually, he’d gone out and never came back. And then my mom met Rob. I knew something was wrong after he moved in. He was nice enough at first, making little jokes to me, asking me why I didn’t play sports, or why I wasn’t bringing girls home. Until one day, when I was rummaging around for something to eat and didn’t notice one of his beers laying flat against the wall of the fridge. It fell, exploding in a shower of suds and glass, and he came stomping into the kitchen. He slapped me. It was the first time I’d ever been slapped, and it stung. I thought he’d broken my nose. My mom came running in and immediately started crying. He gave her a look that said you’d better stop or you’ll get one too. 

That was almost two years ago. As I sat in our human zoo, this collection of teenage zoo animals, I thought about Rob. About me, and what it said about my mother’s only son that I would let him do that to her. Last night was bad. He’d got really drunk. Like, worse than usual. Ever since he got laid off, he’d been spending the E.I. cheques at the bar, leaving me and my mom to fend for ourselves on her measly waitress wages and tips. I heard him come in, his footsteps heavy, like concrete blocks, and shout at her, asking where that carton of cigarettes was. Except when he said it, it was more like cig’rits. I heard her voice, small and afraid, telling him that he’d smoked the last pack already. And then I heard the slap.

Usually, it would have ended there; him, going to plop down in his chair and drink to oblivion and mom, dragging herself up the stairs, defeated and wounded, to sleep. But last night, it kept going. I heard a louder sound, a thick crunch, and a scream. Had to be a punch, I thought. I crept downstairs and saw him in the kitchen, obscuring the light, his face cast in darkness, twisted in a snarl of hatred and rage, his arm pulled back, veins bulging as he unloaded on her. My legs carried me towards him. Maybe it was self-defense for my mom, maybe it was something else… whatever it was, he didn’t like it. He turned on me, called me a little shit, said I was just like my dad, and slapped me. He turned back to her and wasn’t expecting the weak right hand I threw his way. For someone who had never thrown a punch before, I connected pretty well. He pushed me away, touched his finger to his nose, saw the blood, and laughed. He threw a punch and I wouldn’t be exaggerating to say I didn’t even see it; I just felt it. Another thing I’d never experienced before, and to be honest, it was something I could have gone without. The light in the kitchen split into a thousand small prisms, all floating like some prismatic screen saver, and the last thing I remember before everything went black was hearing him kick his shoes off and his heavy footsteps going up the stairs.

“Hey. Dipshit.” 

A voice broke me from my reverie. The memory was so strong, so vivid, that I got caught up in it. The bruise across my face was a living testament, a temporary tattoo of my first received right hand; but the mind is more powerful than the body, and I couldn’t escape it. Now, I’d have to. Liam was standing in front of me, twirling a pencil between his fingers. I looked up, focussing on his nose. I didn’t like eye contact. 

“What happened to your face?” 

Everyone in the class seemed to lean over, suddenly forgetting about their devices. You give teenagers 20-damned minutes of free time and see what happens? They get bored. 

“I fell. Hit my face against the wall.”

Liam looked at me a bit closer and squinted. “You sure you didn’t get that going down on your boyfriend?” 

45 minutes earlier

There was a hazy silence in the classroom as we walked in and sat down. Having Fortino in the morning was like a sedative; you had to sit through her long-winded explanations of Shakespeare. Even I, a fan of reading, found it hard to focus on her in the morning. It required a lot of brainpower which was often in short supply before 9 AM. After a minute, everyone was seated and the classroom was quiet. We waited. And waited. The first comment came after about three minutes:

“Where is she?” 

A number of murmurs around the room proved that no one really knew. A few more minutes passed. At this point, some people were turning around in their seats, whispering to friends close by, as if afraid that she might still walk in through the door, ready to hand out detention for something. But she didn’t. After ten minutes of whispers and covert phone checking, it became clear that no one was coming. It didn’t surprise anyone that Liam stood up and closed the door, locking it for good measure. 

“Well, ain’t this a treat,” he said. 

An excited buzz filled the air, replacing the deflated, Shakespeare-induced somnolence. 

“Let’s do something. I mean, none of you guys is gonna tell, right? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. We got options, people!”

More chatter and conferring, buzzing and swelling of emotion, until after a few minutes, phones and laptops came out, and technology took over. Even Liam seemed content, his feet up on a desk, phone flipped horizontally, laughing at something most likely brainless. I felt free for a moment, then remembered the bruise on my face, that anchor, tying me to the life I couldn’t escape. I shifted the marred side of my face into my palm, covering my pain from the rest of my English class, and struggled to really feel anything at all. With no teacher in class, I was left to be alone in a room full of people and to be honest with you, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.