6. Surviving an American Mass Shooting: Trauma Descends in the Aftermath
In the hours after escaping a mass shooting, initial trauma envelops me as I struggle to help first responders and detectives.
Previously, in Part 5:
After a brief stop at Athena’s apartment, we said our goodbyes and I lumbered heavily into the empty Dallas streets.
Shuddering at the thought of my unfriendly apartment, I drifted a block south, stumbling into a makeshift command center abuzz with first responders.
As pandemonium swirled around me, a steadying hand pressed against my back.
Twirling around, I stared at the woman’s concerned face, struggling to hear.
Struggling to think is more like it.
“I was there,” I blurted out.
“I saw everything.”
Wrapping her arm around my shoulders, compassion danced across her face as she guided me gingerly into the backseat, her eyes brimming with tears.
As the car raced past blurred city lights, my mind safely dissociated from reality.
Welcoming the respite for my psyche, I finally appreciated it as a skill instead of a symptom.
That’s the thing about enduring multiple traumas; one learns how and when to separate from reality.
Controlling it is the trick.
Before long, handlers escorted me through the winding corridors of the Police Headquarters, as a reaper shepherds a ghost into the afterlife.
As we slipped into the interrogation room, stark white and bare except a table and chairs pushed against a wall, an eerie chill fell over my body.
I had walked into an episode of NYPD Blue.
Not Law & Order. Very specifically, it was NYPD Blue vibes.
Empty, cold and eerie NYPD Blue vibes.
Right on cue, an Andy Sipowicz doppelganger threw the door open and briskly motioned for me to sit.
Gritty and exhausted, the bulldog detective attempted to unfurl his brow and infuse empathetic notes into his barked questions, but nothing could mask his steady seething.
The entire interview passed in a blur.
With my brain fried and body begging for sedation, I meandered down a hall, wobbling and stumbling into walls.
Realizing I had no way home, I retreated into a corner, my lower lip trembling as I fought back tears, wishing to disappear.
But before I could dissolve into the sheetrock, two female police officers appeared and hoisted me up, carrying my weight and insisting they drive me home.
As the women fastened the seatbelt around me, my muscles began to loosen as my remaining abilities diminished further.
Mercifully, the driver meandered through Dallas’ many highway loops, granting me a few extra minutes of relative comfort.
As we pulled into downtown Dallas, an eerie blanket of fog hovered over the abandoned city streets.
The menacing evil still lingered, saturating the heavy air.
Wickedness and despair was palpable.
Kicking back into high gear, my nervous system revolted as we rolled to a stop, six blocks from my apartment.
“Please. PLEASE pull over and let me out here.”
“What? No, we’re taking you home.”
“No, you can’t… I can make it on foot.”
The car seemingly swirled around me as my chest tightened to restrict my breathing.
As the panic began to attack, a voice crackled over the radio.
“Target eliminated. All clear.”
Next on The Antiheroine’s Surviving an American Mass Shooting, we’ll explore the facts of the shooting and what really happened that day:
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Another powerful entry. Thank you for sharing, Allison.