The Little Things; Ziall & Larry (AU) *Completed*

Chapter 8; Garfield & Lists & Terror & Heroes

AUTHORS NOTE;

I’ve been having the same nightmare.

Of a man who walks into a school building, and kills the upmost innocent. In then that nightmare has come true, and several kids have lived it, and I just want to say…. My deepest love. May the faith, and the community, stay strong with you all during this great time of need. I love you all. -Leam

I've dedicated this to SarahMagana because she is so dedicated and kind. <3

Chapter 8; Garfield & Lists & Terror & Heroes

Opaque was sitting in her third hour, Math with Mrs. Grishamn, -a very angry, bitter old woman with an odd obsession with Garfield-, when the news was declared. No one knew what was happening, but fluorescent lights were turned off, replaced by flickering, dim, emergency lights. Children were told to stack their books neatly in one corner of the classroom, and to all huddle in the small gap of space between the first row of work desks and Mrs. Grishamn’s U shaped table. Unsure, but silent in their confusion, the whole group of small Secondary Scholars, or 6th graders, were all clumped together. They watched the back of their teacher’s short cropped hair as she taped up some black construction paper over the window, in then pushed one of the desks with a desk-top on it in front of the door. Or… tried too. After several seconds of struggling she motioned for the largest boys to assist her.

They came and together the large, heavy desk slid across the blue and green carpeted floor easily, with almost no resistance. In then she put a finger in front of her lips, and she went to sit behind her computer again. All of the children were kneeling on the ground, some hugging, some with eyes full of tears. No one knew what to do.

Was it terrorists?

A bombing?

Drugs?

The tension in the room was tangible, and someone came to sit beside Opaque, who had a cupboard handle pressed into her side, breathing down her neck because there was no other place to breathe. “What’s wrong?” The girl breathed softly, and Opaque’s hearing aids only faintly picked up the wispy whisper. Opaque only shrugged, adjusting so that whoever’s elbow was pressed into her thigh wasn’t hurting her so bad. In then they all lapsed into a silence.

~…~

The British air was thick with tension and rain, musky with the immanent sent of a thunderstorm. Or maybe that tangy sent was blood. A police officer shepherded a woman, dressed only in a white bath robe and pink slippers, a line of mascara starting from her eyelashes and ending at her widows’ peak, to the line of men and women tussling over two sheets of paper.

It was the casualties list. It was based off of those who escaped who told their testimonies. They told the officers, who are injured, where they were, and how many dead bodies they found and what their names were. If they could remember. People were bringing in blankets, laying them on the ground to set the shocked on. So many kids in a row.

The woman’s robe was flecked with blood, and if you asked Louis about the look in her eyes… He’d have no answer for you. It was the most palpable, indescribable pain. The kind of pain that showed only when someone was lost.

“Louis,” Harry breathed out as a girl with a double braid ran out of the school. She was clutching a copy of some book by Jules Verne to her chest, and she had red speckles on her face. Blood. Her mouth was wide in a silent scream of the uttermost terror.

“The library!” She screeched… In then her knees buckled, and she fell face first onto the grass to reveal a circular bullet wound to the patch of skin above the base of her spine.

Her terror kept her legs moving when her spine shattered.

~…~

Zayn and Niall were in the Library. They were staring, like every other child in the shelved room, at the sobbing teenage boy who was braced in the threshold. His face was bloody, his hands trembling violently, his body shaking as he struggled to remain standing. His eyes looked like a pool of shadows, hollow and warped with tragedy.

“Who… Who in here..” He panted, a sick, demented smile twisting his face. He wiped his nose with his hand, his scar etched wrists revealed when the cuffs slid down to his elbows. “Wants to be a hero?” His voice was faltering as he held up the semi-automatic pistol.

No one knew he only had two bullets left in the chamber.

He could only use one.

The second would be sent spiraling into his head.

He let loose a bitter, rumbling chuckle of the deepest regrets, “A hero? Anyone want to stand up and die?” Zayn slowly shifted, pushing Niall behind him. In then he began to hum in a tone so soft no one could here. Kaden proceeded to smirk, “I’ll cut you a deal.” The troubled boy stepped into the library, his booted feat leaving bloody footprints on the blue carpet.

“If one of you takes this bullet, I won’t kill anyone else.”

A fib. He wouldn’t be able to with the number of bullets in the chamber. He was lying. His request was greeted with silence. “No one? No one?” He sank to the floor, sitting upon his knees with a grotesque expression.

“No one stood up for me, just like no one will sacrifice themselves for the lives of others. When I was pushed, when I was hit, when I was cursed, who took it upon themselves to come to my rescue? When my sister died that horrible death, who comforted me? When everything was falling apart who helped me put it back together again?” His voice was increasing in intensity.

“No one. Just like no one will stand up to me,” He wiped his eyes, smearing the blood on his pale skin, “No one.”

In then Zayn stood up.

“I’ve always wanted to be a hero,” Zayn said.

~…~

There was a rope, a rope to keep the people shepherded behind the schools rolling green courtyard. It was course, tied to one mirror on a police car, and around the metal pole of a stop sign.

“Your name?” The interviewer demanded; a camera on the shoulder of the man behind her. She had a brisk face, but her lipstick was smudged and her chignon was loose, whips of dark hair fanning her face. Opaque shifted in her shoes, unsure of how she’d gotten here, and unsure of what to do. What did the damn woman want from her?

“Opaque Malik.” She replied, running her small fingers down her face. The T.V. anchor straightened her pin striped skirt.

“Do you know anyone inside of that school building?” Her voice was strong and compact, as if this was a usual occurrence. Her eyes were slits in her face.

“My older brother,” Opaque said, her voice soft and scared, “Zayn. This is his first day.”

“What a tragic coincidence.” The woman said, leaning forward on the balls of her feet to look into the eyes of the smaller girl, “What do you think he’s doing? Right now?”

“I don’t know what he’s doing. But I know what I’m doing. Calling you a stuck up whore,” Opaque spun on her foot, ready like she’d always been, in then she turned and said, whipping around, “My brother is a hero. He took me in as a child; he works days and nights, and provides for me. He’s got custody. He’s never let me down. So, what is he doing right now?” Her voice was unstable as she clenched her fists, her hair stringing limp around her face and tears coursing down her red cheeks.

“He is being a hero.”