Posts
Vertigo
Uno, dos, tres, catorce!
Turn it up loud, captain ...
Lights go down,
it's dark -
the jungle is your head;
can't rule your heart:
a feeling's so much
stronger than a thought -
your eyes are wide
and though your soul,
it can't be bought,
your mind can wander ...
Hello hello -
I'm at a place called vertigo:
it's everything I wish I didn't know -
except You give me something
I can feel ...
The night is full of holes
as bullets rip the sky of ink with gold:
they twinkle as the boys play rock and roll -
they know that they can't dance
(at least they know) ...
I can't stand the beats,
I'm asking for the check -
the girl with crimson nails
has Jesus 'round her neck -
swingin' to the music,
swingin' to the music, oh ...
Hello hello -
I'm at a place called vertigo:
it's everything I wish I didn't know -
but You give me something
I can feel ...
"All of this, all of this can be yours ... all of this, all of this can be yours ... all of this, all of this can be yours ... just give me what I want, and no one gets hurt ... "
Hello hello -
I'm at a place called vertigo:
lights go down and all I know
is that You give me something ...
I can feel Your love teaching me how -
Your love is teaching me how -
how to kneel, kneel ...
Vertigo lyrics (c) U2, How To Dismantle an Atomic Bomb
10.11.2006
10.05.2006
(Author's Note: The following account is entirely fictional and based on no one in particular.
I write this a week or so after the Dawson College shootings in Montreal, along with the Colorado and Pennsylvania shootings in the States. My deepest sympathies and prayers to the families of the victims ... I'm just as scared as all the other students out there, wondering whether a man with a gun is going to walk into our school next. This little story comes from that fear.)
What a beautiful day. The sky is bright blue, the leaves just beginning to change colours, and the wind is ruffling my hair pleasantly. Nothing can go wrong.
I'm heading to school - it's Friday morning, and I'm looking forward to the weekend. I attend a downtown school in the capital, and the commute (I live out of the city) is nuts.
A white car drives past me. It's probably a student driving to school. My dad drops me off on his way to work, so I walk a ways. That's fine.
The little white four-door sedan stops a bit ahead of me, and the driver door opens. A tall man unfolds from the car. He's wearing a long black coat, a bit like the ones in The Matrix. I don't get why, but oh well, to each their own style of clothing.
He heads around to the trunk of his car, but by this time I've passed him and am continuing on to the school building.
Suddenly there's a quiet chik-chik sound behind me. It sounds ... familiar. Like something I've heard before somewhere, in a movie or something. I turn around to look.
The man in the coat is standing about twenty meters away from me, pointing a gun right at my chest. I freeze.
Time seems to stop. I can't take my eyes off the cold gunmetal-gray machine in his hand, poised to kill me.
I look up at his face, very slowly. The wind has died down. Everything is silent. I can't see his eyes. He's wearing sunglasses.
I'm scared. I don't want to die. Not like this.
I start praying in my head. Nothing ... long and drawn-out, just ... praying. It's so hard to explain.
His face is set. His muscles are tight. He's ready and willing to fire. If I run, he will for sure. If I stand here, I'm a sitting duck. Mom said that if someone's firing at you, run in a zig-zag: it makes it hard to aim. But I've been standing here. He's ready. If I start running he'll hit me for sure.
Am I going to die?
He starts walking, his gun still pointed at my chest. I'm trembling oh-so-slightly. I don't know what he wants. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared.
He walks past me. He just ... walks past me. After a minute passes I turn and he's still walking. He's not looking at me anymore, and the gun is at his side. I just about collapse in tears. I'm alive. I'm safe.
Through the haze of tears, I realize that I may be safe, but he's heading for the school. I pull out my cellphone and dial 911 as fast as I can.
"Hello?"
It's hard to me to reply. The voice on the other end sounds so kind and helpful, I just want to break down and cry. "There's a gunman going into my school."
The voice changes. "What school, honey?"
I tell her the name and say come quickly.
"We'll be right there, dear."
She hangs up and I look up. I can't see the gunman. I don't know where he is. I run to the school's side door and look in. He's not there. I go in and pull the fire alarm, then run away as fast as I can. I haven't heard any gunshots. Maybe no one will get hurt.
I make it to the other side of the park beside our school and sink down in front of a tree. I look back at the school and see kids coming out en masse. I wonder how I'm suddenly so calm. It doesn't make sense.
A gunshot. Screams. No, no, that shouldn't have happened! I wanted to make it not happen ... please say no one was killed ...
Ambulances and police cars rumble down the street and stop in front of the school. Another gunshot. More screams.
I start to cry. This should never happen. Never. It's so wrong. I force myself up just as I hear another gunshot, and see a police officer walking towards me. I go to meet him.
He asks me if I knew anything. I reply that I was the one who had called 911. He asks if I'm a student. I reply in the affirmative.
He sighs gently and tells me that the gunman is dead. I let out a sob and ask if anyone else is. He says, "Not yet."
I ask if I can go home. He asks me where home is. I tell him and he tells me to call my parents and tell them I'm alright: I try on my cell, but the lines are busy.
He smiles wanly and says that's no surprise: many people are calling to say they're okay. Maybe I should go to the school and see if I could help. I nod and head back with him.
I find out my best friend was one of the ones who had been shot. It hits me like a battering ram to the stomach. All I can do is say, "I'm sorry, what?"
It sinks in and I start to cry again. "Is she ... "
"No."
"Will she ... "
"Maybe."
Someone gives me a hug and I just hug back, crying. Only then do I notice that so many others are crying, too.
I want to go home ... I want to go home ... In the space of fifteen minutes, my life has changed. I want to be home safe, watching this on the news, not living it.
The media have started to show up. One of them inquires as to who placed the emergency call, and I'm ushered over. We talk for a little and I try to explain, without too many sobs, what happened.
It all passes in a blur. Soon I'm home, curled up on the living room couch, watching the six o'clock news. I'm on the news. I've been on it before but not for anything like this.
It's all so surreal. So, so surreal. I don't understand it. Facts are passing by my head and they just don't compute. My mom tries to get me to eat, but I feel nauseous and refuse.
After a while I can't stand news anymore, so I turn off the TV and turn to the piano.
It's several hours later when I finally stop playing and go to bed crying. I don't know what's going on and I don't want to. I just want to sleep ... and I don't want to dream.
Anything to make the ache go away.
I write this a week or so after the Dawson College shootings in Montreal, along with the Colorado and Pennsylvania shootings in the States. My deepest sympathies and prayers to the families of the victims ... I'm just as scared as all the other students out there, wondering whether a man with a gun is going to walk into our school next. This little story comes from that fear.)
What a beautiful day. The sky is bright blue, the leaves just beginning to change colours, and the wind is ruffling my hair pleasantly. Nothing can go wrong.
I'm heading to school - it's Friday morning, and I'm looking forward to the weekend. I attend a downtown school in the capital, and the commute (I live out of the city) is nuts.
A white car drives past me. It's probably a student driving to school. My dad drops me off on his way to work, so I walk a ways. That's fine.
The little white four-door sedan stops a bit ahead of me, and the driver door opens. A tall man unfolds from the car. He's wearing a long black coat, a bit like the ones in The Matrix. I don't get why, but oh well, to each their own style of clothing.
He heads around to the trunk of his car, but by this time I've passed him and am continuing on to the school building.
Suddenly there's a quiet chik-chik sound behind me. It sounds ... familiar. Like something I've heard before somewhere, in a movie or something. I turn around to look.
The man in the coat is standing about twenty meters away from me, pointing a gun right at my chest. I freeze.
Time seems to stop. I can't take my eyes off the cold gunmetal-gray machine in his hand, poised to kill me.
I look up at his face, very slowly. The wind has died down. Everything is silent. I can't see his eyes. He's wearing sunglasses.
I'm scared. I don't want to die. Not like this.
I start praying in my head. Nothing ... long and drawn-out, just ... praying. It's so hard to explain.
His face is set. His muscles are tight. He's ready and willing to fire. If I run, he will for sure. If I stand here, I'm a sitting duck. Mom said that if someone's firing at you, run in a zig-zag: it makes it hard to aim. But I've been standing here. He's ready. If I start running he'll hit me for sure.
Am I going to die?
He starts walking, his gun still pointed at my chest. I'm trembling oh-so-slightly. I don't know what he wants. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared.
He walks past me. He just ... walks past me. After a minute passes I turn and he's still walking. He's not looking at me anymore, and the gun is at his side. I just about collapse in tears. I'm alive. I'm safe.
Through the haze of tears, I realize that I may be safe, but he's heading for the school. I pull out my cellphone and dial 911 as fast as I can.
"Hello?"
It's hard to me to reply. The voice on the other end sounds so kind and helpful, I just want to break down and cry. "There's a gunman going into my school."
The voice changes. "What school, honey?"
I tell her the name and say come quickly.
"We'll be right there, dear."
She hangs up and I look up. I can't see the gunman. I don't know where he is. I run to the school's side door and look in. He's not there. I go in and pull the fire alarm, then run away as fast as I can. I haven't heard any gunshots. Maybe no one will get hurt.
I make it to the other side of the park beside our school and sink down in front of a tree. I look back at the school and see kids coming out en masse. I wonder how I'm suddenly so calm. It doesn't make sense.
A gunshot. Screams. No, no, that shouldn't have happened! I wanted to make it not happen ... please say no one was killed ...
Ambulances and police cars rumble down the street and stop in front of the school. Another gunshot. More screams.
I start to cry. This should never happen. Never. It's so wrong. I force myself up just as I hear another gunshot, and see a police officer walking towards me. I go to meet him.
He asks me if I knew anything. I reply that I was the one who had called 911. He asks if I'm a student. I reply in the affirmative.
He sighs gently and tells me that the gunman is dead. I let out a sob and ask if anyone else is. He says, "Not yet."
I ask if I can go home. He asks me where home is. I tell him and he tells me to call my parents and tell them I'm alright: I try on my cell, but the lines are busy.
He smiles wanly and says that's no surprise: many people are calling to say they're okay. Maybe I should go to the school and see if I could help. I nod and head back with him.
I find out my best friend was one of the ones who had been shot. It hits me like a battering ram to the stomach. All I can do is say, "I'm sorry, what?"
It sinks in and I start to cry again. "Is she ... "
"No."
"Will she ... "
"Maybe."
Someone gives me a hug and I just hug back, crying. Only then do I notice that so many others are crying, too.
I want to go home ... I want to go home ... In the space of fifteen minutes, my life has changed. I want to be home safe, watching this on the news, not living it.
The media have started to show up. One of them inquires as to who placed the emergency call, and I'm ushered over. We talk for a little and I try to explain, without too many sobs, what happened.
It all passes in a blur. Soon I'm home, curled up on the living room couch, watching the six o'clock news. I'm on the news. I've been on it before but not for anything like this.
It's all so surreal. So, so surreal. I don't understand it. Facts are passing by my head and they just don't compute. My mom tries to get me to eat, but I feel nauseous and refuse.
After a while I can't stand news anymore, so I turn off the TV and turn to the piano.
It's several hours later when I finally stop playing and go to bed crying. I don't know what's going on and I don't want to. I just want to sleep ... and I don't want to dream.
Anything to make the ache go away.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)