Nobody, Not Even the Rain || phan

Chapter One

Dan had been dead for only 42 minutes before he woke up again. Those 42 minutes had been the longest of his life.  Usually sleep went fast for him, but he had never experienced death before, and the minutes were agonizing.

It was like there was an internal clock inside of him, each tick asking the same question:  what would happen?  What did the future hold? Would he just sleep in the dark, thinking for the rest of eternity?

During those 42 minutes, Dan began to debate whether or not he was even dead at all.  Maybe he was just dreaming, or in a coma.  Dan even began to wonder if he was real.

He lost more hope every minute that went by.  He had never really been a firm believer in God, but was this his punishment? Was this his hell?  Trapped inside his own mind, forever waiting for change, and never recieving it?

50 minutes before he woke up, Dan was at school, cowering in fear.  He was in the autotourium, of all places to be during a school shooting.  The most empty place in a school.

The shooter hadn't found him yet, but he was walking down the hall.  Dan could only tell because the screams were getting louder by the second.  It was an awful thing to hear, and it was the most horrible thing Dan had ever experienced.

48 minutes before he woke up, Dan had noticed that he forgot to lock the door to the autotourium.

45 minutes before he woke up, Dan was crying.  There weren't anymore screams left.  The silence was more excruciating then the screams.  All he could hear were footsteps, gradually getting louder.

44 minutes before he woke up, he was pleading for his life.  The shooter had heard this all too well before, and lacked empathy.  However, this was his sick version of entertainment so he listened.

42 minutes before he woke up, bang. And now, only 42 minutes after he died, Dan was lying in a bush.  He wasn't sure why.  He just remembered his life, his death, and then opening his eyes after it felt like they had been glued shut. 

Quietly he stood up and attempted to brush himself off.  He was standing in front of a house, and though the bush should have been destroyed, it looked exactly like it should have.

Dan knocked on the door and noticed that this street was eerily quiet, and the houses looked like no one had lived in them for years.  He had no memory of them, however, so he decided not to look into it.

A few moments after Dan knocked on the door, an old man answered it breathlessly.  He sighed and put his hand on his leg.

"Excuse me, sir."  Dan said.  The old man didn't even look at him. 

"Those darn kids, always thinking it's funny to ding dong and witch-or, ditch."  The old man leaned on his cane and grabbed the door to shut it.

"Sir, please."  This all had to be a cruel joke.  It made no sense. 

Right when the door was about to shut completely, Dan stuck his foot in to stop it. 

But when Dan felt no pain on his foot, he looked up and saw that the door had already been shut.

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Phil felt very anxious that morning. Very unstable, he felt like he would fall down if he tried to stand up.

But the problem was, everything was fine. Nothing wrong, no one in the family was sick, and Phil had taken all the medications he had for anxiety, and everything was fine. No need to be upset. His mother felt it necessary to keep repeating the last part, though.

''You'll be fine, Phil, it's okay. You sure you can not go to school?'' She repeated, just mostly in different forms throughout the morning. It still wasn't too late to go, she said, but Phil knew that. He didn't want to go.

He played it off with a stomach ache at the last minute, hoping that the copious amounts of time spent under his blanket would make his face feel at least slightly warm to his mothers touch.

It did, and she finally believed him and stayed quiet about the whole ordeal.

Phils mother cried that night, repeating how she thanked the lord for the small bug to keep her son home.

Phil let a breath out he didn't know he was holding. He knew something was wrong, but he couldn't place his finger on it at the time. Of course, he felt terrible, sad at the least of all the feelings, for everyone who passed. Beloved teachers, small acquaintances. He was only one of the small four that stayed home that day.

Everyone died, but Phil. Everyone died in that building today, and Phil felt he should have been there. Dead with them, his mother mourning with the rest.

Luckily for Phil, school was off for the next week or so. He understood.

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After a confused Dan got a door slammed in his face, he decided to head down the road.  There had to be a town near here, and probably a hospital.  A man as old as that wouldn't live too far from a hospital.

Dan was thinking he could maybe ask them about a school shooting.  Maybe he could find some of the other people that survived.

It all still kind of confused him, honestly.  How could he had survived? Not many people can survive a shot to the head, and why would he wake up in a bush?

Unfortunately, with all these questions on his mind, Dan wasn't watching where he was going and tripped over a sign.  Something brown fell out of his pocket, and he picked it up.

"Dan Howell.  Manchester.  16 years of age.  192 Brooksroad Lane, 555-2848."

So there was proof that he actually existed-his wallet.  With only 4 dollars in it, but still.  Dan assured himself that everything would be okay, picked himself up, and carried on walking to town.

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Phil felt like he was supposed to be with those other students, dead. He felt as if he was the only one who had the pressure on him that he was the only one who didn't die, but that wasn't true. He wasn't even in the building, and he felt terrible.

He thought more people would have been absent, as it wasn't a very small school, but only four. Four people. He found this out when his mother, and apparently the parents of the other three kids, thought it would be good for them to talk.

He had never seen one of the kids, and the other two never gave a second glance to him, but he knew at least their names.

Two of the four kids were crying, not including Phil.

  There were two girls, and two boys. One girl was crying loudly, holding onto the arm lightly of the other girl. The girl who was crying was named Zoe, and the other girl who sat there, quietly comforting her was named Cat. The other boy, named Tyler, sat in the same row as Phil, facing the two girls and sitting as far away from Phil as he could without it being obvious, but Phil knew. He understood. Tears were slowly making their way down Tylers face, as he muttered something about a girl named Jenna before he wiped away his tears.  

After the meeting, Phil figured none of the remaining students felt the same. None of them felt the weight of the other deaths, none felt as if they could have been the one who stopped the shooter and lowered the remaining death toll.

Only Phil did.