BRRRRRRRRRRING!

  The sound tears through the silence, loud and grating, vibrating in my head and jolting me violently awake. My heart hammers against my ribs, frantic, as I scramble upright, tangling in the blankets and pressing my palms over my ears with painful pressure, “I hate that stupid thing!” It's the school bell. The lunch bell… Just the bell, ringing for no one. A few seconds and the sound dies, leaving the silence even heavier than before. It’s quiet again but only outside. Inside my skull, I can still hear the clangour. It jangles behind my eardrums with infernal clarity; a phantom ringing that pulses with a dull, persistent ache in my eyes. Stupid bell.

  Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I scoot back into the corner, leaning against the wall, wrapped in my blanket, trying to calm my frantic heart. The world trickles back in as the electricity in my blood fades away but a hollow, gnawing feeling replaces it. I’m hungry again... The snacks from the vending machines – chips, chocolates and fizzy drinks – suddenly feel less like treasure and more like a cruel joke. More sugar, more junk, not real food. Not like Mom would make. There has to be something better somewhere here. I need some real food. First, though, I’ve gotto pee.

  It’s raining again. I hear the quiet ‘shhhh’ sound from outside, the trickle of water through the gutters, the splat of heavy drops on hard, flat cement. The world is waiting for me, there’s stuff to do. I don’t want to get up, don’t want to go out there but I really gotto go! There’s no arguing.

  Disentangling from the blankets, stretching slowly, I stand. My joints pop softly in the silence, it feels good to move but now there’s pins and needles in my feet. Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with my shoes on. The squeaky door doesn’t scare me this time but the cold draft outside in the halls makes me shiver. It’s colder than yesterday, I think.

  Walking to the restroom used to be so normal, a routine. Everyone did it, now I’m the only one here. The weight is immense, it keeps pulling at me, dragging like lead. But I keep moving, watching and listening for any sign of disturbance. Weird, when did that happen?

  Cold air is already seeping through my pants and stinging my fingers as I reach the restroom. The bathroom door swings open silently, the fresh smell of pine scented cleaning chemicals wafting out to greet me. The tiled floor is sparkling, the cleaners always made sure the school was perfect. I peek inside. Rows of stalls, doors ajar, stretching into the gloom. I flick the light switch and tiptoe inside, no one. No one here.

  The relief is electric through my body, it washes over me as I push the flush handle. The water swirls down loudly and the cistern screams as it refills. It’s one little sound, one normal sound in the endless sea of emptiness, and for a second, it almost feels like things are okay.

  Then I go to the row of sinks. The taps twist easily, and cold, clear water gushes out. I wash my hands, rubbing them fiercely under the flow, and splash water onto my face. It's cold, shocking me awake even more. My reflection in the mirror looks different today. My eyes are still red, tired, but there's something new there now. Something hard. Something that wasn’t there before.

  The school is still the same. Silent. Still. I walk slowly through the hallways, my shoes clicking on the hard floor, passing classroom after classroom, each one filled with silent desks, untouched projects and half-finished lessons, left for the dust and the spiderwebs to claim. I don’t look at the still shapes if I can help it. I keep my eyes on the floor, or on the walls, or just ahead. But they’re always there, in the corners of my vision, just everywhere. Each a silent accusation, a reminder of what happened, of what I did.

  I push past the library. The door is slightly ajar. Inside, rows and rows of books, silent, waiting. Books filled with stories, with other worlds, with people talking and laughing and living. Something I just can’t face. My tummy is still aching, a hollow knot that won’t go away. All that sugar doesn’t last long and it makes my tummy hurt. I need real food.

  The staff room’s where the teachers went for breaks. There’s probably something there, right? We were never allowed in there. It felt like a secret, forbidden place. But now… now there’s no one to stop me.

  Reaching the staff room, I slowly push the door open, the unfamiliar squeak sending a little jolt down my spine. The bright lights are harsh in here and the air is warm and heavy with the smell of old coffee, of something… else. The floor is wet, a large puddle, right up to the door. I scan the room, hesitant, trying not to think about the still shape that litter the room. The feeling gets stronger, I want to run away but I can’t escape this anymore, I know it.

  A man lies near the water cooler, a coffee mug still clenched in his hand. It’s Mr. Peterson, my science teacher. Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Davies, the principal; even the cleaning lady is here.

  My eyes find the floor again. Don’t look. The well inside me is already open, swallowing me whole. But I take a deep breath and move forward. A shallow splash as I step deeper into the room. Little ripples flow away from my feet. The kitchenette is my only focus. Empty coffee mugs on the draining rack, an electric kettle, tea bags, coffee, sugar.

  I open the fridge. A carton of milk, still mostly full, sits on the top shelf. Some butter, a loaf of bread and apricot jam! Tucked away behind it all, I find a few plastic containers with teachers' names on them. Inside, real food! A peanut butter sandwich, fruit salad, and even a few pieces of fruit. An orange, a pear, two apples and… oh my god, a mango! Yes!

  The cupboards and drawers are mostly filled with clean dishes and other kitchen stuff but in the one by the fridge, a treasure trove. A box of crackers, still sealed, a small bag of trail mix and two unopened boxes of long-life milk. I pile everything up on the counter, a solid, reassuring stack of provisions, and look around for something to carry it all; eyes jumping automatically over the still shapes but there are no bags, no practical way to transport my growing haul; just the teachers’ handbags and a small satchel bag that belonged to Mr. Peterson. Maybe I could use my hoodie, tie the sleeves? But it’s cold and… there’s gotto be something else.

  I shiver, my body already knows what’s coming before I even think of it. It’s a school… there are hundreds of bags out there…

  I can't just leave all this food here. I need a bag. My eyes dart around the staff room again, but there’s nothing. Just the still shapes, the silent furniture, the lingering smell of old coffee and… that strange, sticky sweet odour that claws at my nose and throat.

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  Backing out of the staff room, I close the door behind me, the subtle squeak, the soft click resonating in my ears. I’ve seen loads of bags in the halls, I could just take one of those. It’s obvious what I need to do, but the bile slowly rises in my belly as I walk. Here and there, still shapes lie. I have to look at them again, like Sarah. I have to take from them. My jaw tightens as I swallow down the feeling. They’re not here anymore. Bags, bags, bags. All kinds. If I’m going to do this I should find the right one. Most are just book bags or little backpacks. The smaller kids didn’t carry so many books around. I pass the little ones by without even looking at them.

  When I reach the lobby, my eyes fall upon the boy near the door, the one with the big feet. He has a backpack. It’s a plain blue one, lying half-open beside him, slung off one shoulder. There’s a few textbooks spilled out beside it on the floor. It’s a good bag, looks sturdy, and it’s big enough, but the strap is hooked around his arm and his body is stiff and heavy. This doesn’t feel the same. Not like Sarah. I don’t throw up, I don’t cry, I just pull his body over and free the strap. When I let go, he rolls over onto his back, hands hovering above the ground, body locked in position like he’s frozen solid. Pee soaks his front, it’s ghastly and it smells.

  I move away from him and toss the contents of the bag out on the floor. Books, pencil case, Lunchbox. He has a lunchbox… They all have lunchboxes, probably… I’m stupid.

  Making my way back to the staff room, I poke through all the bags I find. There’s loads of food, mostly sandwiches but I don’t know if they’re okay to eat anymore so I don’t take those. They don’t look bad but that subtle stink that hangs in the air here, just puts me off. But there’s also little yogurts, sealed, plastic wrapped fruit sticks and biltong, little packets of nuts, dried fruit and biscuits. Also a lot of sweets and juice boxes and stuff. By the time I get where I’m going, the bag is half full, my heart thumping with a new kind of excitement. In the staff room, I carefully load everything into the backpack. It's heavy, but it all fits. This feels like a real haul. A real victory.

  Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I back out of the staff room again, glancing around one final time. My gaze drifts to the small bar fridge in the corner of the kitchenette. It's still running, a faint hum in the silence. Maybe... maybe I could move it? It would be a lot of work, but then I'd have a real place for the cold stuff. A permanent place. This feels important. More important than just taking a few things now but I can't do both. I’ll have to wait to move the fridge. I need to get this food back to the storeroom. The door clicks shut and I turn to leave.

  The weight of the bag feels good and solid and heavy and I walk with a new purpose now, my footsteps echoing a little louder in the silent halls as I make my way back.

  Back inside my lair, I feel a tired sense of accomplishment. I can do this. I can. Dropping the backpack with a thud, I quickly unload the food, arranging the milk, butter, bread, and fruit in a cool, dark corner away from the light. The crackers, trail mix, and long-life milk go onto a higher shelf with my other scavenged snacks. My nest of blankets feels even cozier now, knowing I have a stash of real food and I can hardly wait to eat that mango.

  Breakfast is the best thing I’ve eaten in days. A peanut butter sandwich has never tasted this good and the mango is perfect, juicy and sweet; it tastes like the best thing I’ve ever eaten. It tastes like something mom would make me for lunch… Don’t think about that.

  After the sandwich, a restless energy fills me. The day’s not over yet, I can still do stuff. I’ve got food now, and a bag. What else is there? All this junk. I don’t need any of this stuff. The boxes, the cans of paint and cleaning supplies, the piles of textbooks, none of it needs to be here anymore. I can throw it all away. A new kind of determination prickles under my skin. Pulling myself up, I look around the small room. It’s all just taking up space.

  I grab the first box, a heavy one filled with old art supplies, and drag it towards the door. It sticks and scrapes loudly on the concrete, a grating sound that makes me wince, but I don't stop. I push the door open, just enough to squeeze the box through, and then, with a grunt, I shove it out into the hallway. I’ll just pile everything out here, in the corridor. No one will care. No one will see. This is my space now, mine. I go back for another box, then another, working steadily, building a barricade of junk across the corridor. It’s not enough, my fortress isn’t complete. I need more stuff.

  The art room is right next door, just a few steps away. It’s never locked and has loads of big, sturdy tables. And chairs. Things that are heavy. Things that would make a good barricade. The surge of energy keeps growing, flowing through me, carrying a fresh purpose that diverts my attention from the world, focusing it in a razor’s edge on this one thing. I leave the half-finished pile of boxes and head towards the art room.

  The door swings open easily, flooding the corridor with midday sun. The room is messy, jammed to the ceiling boards with the kind of chaos that only kids with paint know how to make. Brushes soak in murky water. Racks and shelves against the walls hang heavy with forgotten projects. Half-finished paintings, clay sculptures, tea cups and pinch pots; giant, strange creations without names. It’s a museum, or… a memorial… of loss and it almost knocks the wind from my sails to see it.

  There are three long tables. Big, thick plywood boards laid out on stands with thick legs, three or four boards each. Dozens of metal chairs with wood seats and backrests stand clustered around them or neatly stacked in the corner. These will be perfect. I go for the chairs first. They’re lighter, easier to move. I grab one, then another, dragging them out into the hallway, adding them to my growing barricade. The scraping sound of wood on concrete is loud, echoing, it gives me something to focus on while I work. Quickly, building a rhythm, chair after chair, until the stack in the art room is gone.

  The clouds shut out the sun and the drum of rain on the windows takes its place. I keep going. The tables. They’re much harder to move. The big boards are heavy and awkward, but I manage to flip one on its edge. Sliding it across the floor takes all my strength but the battle keeps my mind busy so I don’t have to think. I drag the first table out into the hallway, locking it into a porcupine of chairs against my growing barricade. It’s perfect, solid and heavy. Then I go back for the second, and the third, repeating the process until the corridor outside my room is barred by a jagged, imposing wall. Boxes, paint cans, textbooks, chairs, and now, heavy art tables. It’s not pretty, but it’s solid. It’s a fortress. My fortress.

  I stand back, panting, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. My body aches, but it feels good. More! I need more stuff. My gaze sweeps the corridor, then drifts further down the hallway. BRRRRRRRRRRING! The school bell blares again, making me jump and cover my ears. It’s the second break bell, one o’clock. The bell rings for a few seconds, then dies, leaving a strange, heavy feeling where the fire was before. Food. I should eat something, but I’m not really hungry. That tight knot is back, making my tummy sore.

  A shiver runs through me, jarring, like a sharp sound, turning me away from the barricade. The urge to build more is suddenly gone, crushed by the silent call of the empty school. The ache doesn’t feel good anymore, now it just feels cold, a deep throb in my muscles, and that strange pressure, like the quiet of the school is pressing in on me again. It’s heavy, unyielding. I wander aimlessly now, my feet carrying me without a clear destination. My shoes click and squeak softly on the linoleum, the only sound in the vast, empty building. I don’t look at the still shapes, I’ve seen them all before. I don’t want to look. My eyes skim over the desks, the forgotten projects, the empty blackboards that will never feel another touch of chalk, searching for nothing in particular. Just moving. Just trying not to stop.

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