Blackberry Winter

That's what my mother used to call it. When winter lingered into spring, when the blackberries have bloomed, but there was still snow on the ground. I remember going out into that snow, when the sun was high, and collecting blackberries for my mom. I remember coming back with my hands stained black from their juices. I remember my mom and I washing the blackberries and eating them one by one, laughing as we did. I remember the stomachache afterwards, having eaten too many blackberries, yet I still felt happy. It was a blackberry winter and I remember being happy.

After I killed someone -- a living person, an actual person with parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins -- after I had killed a living, breathing person (it was self defense, he was going to shoot you, it was self defense), I ran. I ran until my legs gave out and I collapsed onto the ground. I wanted to cry, but I was too tired, too sore, too scared to cry.

I shivered and pulled my jacket around me and dragged myself to my feet and began to walk. Walking clears my mind, walking helps me. What was I going to do? I had killed someone. But they had tried to kill me. It was clearly self defense. No one would blame me. I wouldn't go to jail. In fact, I stopped him from killing more people.

And then a question arose in my mind, a question I was sure would come up with the authorities: where had I gotten the gun?

The revolver was in my pocket. I had put it there after I had stopped running. I couldn't carry it around out in the open.

What would I say when they asked me why I had the gun? What could I tell them? I couldn't tell them that I brought it to a school. I didn't have a permit for that, I didn't even have a permit for the gun itself.

And then another thought: they would take the gun away. For some reason, this thought stuck into my brain like a thorn. They couldn't take the gun away from me. I need the gun, I thought. I need it to fight the monsters.

The monsters, they would come after me, like the man in the gray suit said. They had tried to kill me. They would do it again. The gun was my only protection. I couldn't lose it.

So what could I tell the authorities? What could I possibly say?

Nothing. I could say nothing. I could just go, leave, run away. So I did.

I made one stop before leaving -- I bought a holster, so I could carry the gun better. It had been digging into my thigh. And I've checked the news dozens of times, hundreds of times, but there's been no report about a shooting at my school. No report about dead or missing faculty members. For some reason, that made me feel worse than if there had been news reports.

There's snow on the ground, but I found a patch of blackberries by the side of the road. I plucked them all and cupped them in my hand and ate them as I walked down the road. I wanted to feel that happiness again, but I couldn't. I don't think I can be happy ever again.