chapter one: I don’t remember much of the morning, or afternoon. I just remember walking into Mr. Saria's math class feeling something wasn’t right. Don’t ask me to describe it. Don’t ask me how I knew. Because I have no adequate answer.
Math class started normal. Normal. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to use that work again. There is no longer a “normal”. How could there be, when you're bombarded by police, sent to therapists you don’t want to talk to, and are forced to be anything but “normal”. Class seemed ordinary. Hah. Thats another word I doubt I'll use. Being in my situation a day is no longer ordinary. A day - everyday- is a gift. A miracle. A small victory, because you played Russian Roulette with death and won. Not everyone can say the same. Don’t ask me what the lesson was on that day. I’m sure it was on some highly mathematical term for some highly mathematical function, that no one actually uses in life. I’m sure if you looked through the wreckage of Mr. Saria’s classroom, and found his unused lesson plans, you could figure it out. But I'm not going to. If you want to go into that math class, be my guest. All you’ll see is an empty room with several whiteboards. But I won’t. I'll see the place where the first shots were fired, the first screams echoing. Where swat teams burst in. You won’t see the ghosts that wander the halls. But I will. And those memories never go away.