I would be remiss not to warn readers that this true account is terrifying in a way that only unfortunate victims can understand, so if you or someone you know has been a victim of gun violence, please seek the necessary supports before continuing down the page. Moreover, if you experience any troubling thoughts or feelings after reading this story, I encourage you to speak to a trusted mental health professional.
The scariest, most
unnerving outlook on life is to expect the worst on the most ordinary of days.
Unfortunately, for not only myself, but for thousands of other students in
attendance at Dawson College in Montreal on one ill fated day, September 13th,
2006 would be the date on which this bleak mindset would spawn. Having
personally disassociated my naively tranquil mind from the notion of being
subjected to an act of random, yet extreme violence by assuming that school
shootings were more of a problem faced abroad, I was completely taken off guard
when a deranged man took it upon himself to disrupt an entire academic community.
Having shown up at the Dawson College campus for my
first class at around 9:00 am, the only dread I had brought with me that day
was the unwillingness to coast through a full day of mind numbing lectures and
migraine inducing study sessions. On top of the angst of being dragged out of
bed, quickly becoming wistful of the underappreciated summer mornings, my
morning routine had been veered off course when my close friend did not show up
for school that day. My friend’s absence meant that I didn’t have someone to
enjoy my many cigarette breaks with in between lectures- a serendipitous coincidence
that may have very well saved my life. Instead of enjoying the establishment of
a delightful nicotine addiction, I was diverted to spend the day with another
college friend, who was in fact repulsed by smoking and condemned me from
partaking in the soothing, yet disgusting habit. Responding to her sounds of
disgust and constant irritated eye rolls whenever I would mention the
possibility of going outside to satisfy my intensifying craving, I begrudgingly
refrained from leaving her side and instead aimlessly followed her into the
computer room to finish an assignment- a task that was not as high on my list
of priorities as inhaling some much desired carbon monoxide.
Despite my studious friend’s attempts at encouraging
me to focus on my academic endeavors, I quickly grew bored with whatever weekly
assignment I had tried to complete and pleaded with her to pass the time in a
much less productive manner. Finally succumbing to my relentless pleas to
indulge my lethargic ambitions for the day, she gave in and agreed to spend the
rest of our free time in the atrium before heading to our next class. We
ventured to a familiar spot, where we would lean against the wooden railing in
the middle of the college atrium, looking down on the bottom floor of the immense
structure. Although we were inexplicably engaged in trivial conversation-
discussing topics that now seem insignificant, relating to body image and
budding adolescent romantic relationships- it is now refreshing to remember a
time, only seconds before imminent trauma, which was untainted from the
permanence of irrational fear and anxiety.
Surrounded by hundreds of blissfully unaware
students, some of whom were engaging in normative collegial socialization,
whereas others were making a commendable attempt at pursuing a promising
academic career, we were all separated by individual ambitions, stressors, and fixations.
This disconnection, at least for myself, would swiftly fade into an undesired
common ground of basic survival instinct as I heard my friend abruptly
interrupt her sentence by uttering in a curiously concerned tone of voice, “Why
does he have a gun?”
Before I could turn around to understand the vague,
yet frightening connotation of what my friend had been trying to gain insight
towards, to assess the bizarre inquiry, the echoing of a gunshot triggered my
unprecedented instinct to leap to the floor. Although I had never in reality
heard a gunshot, I knew that my life was in danger; so much so that I
regrettably forgot about my friend, whose delayed response to the threatening
sound left her frozen against the wooden railing. The gut-wrenching realization
of having abandoned a close friend in the face of danger confirmed a fear of
cowardice, while simultaneously instilling a long-term sense of profound guilt.
Although temporarily frozen by the audibly startling
gunfire, my stunned friend soon followed my cowardly lead by jumping to the
floor and joining my quivering body behind a large recycling bin. Never in my
life had a flimsy plastic structure felt so secure and not once did the
rational thought cross my mind regarding the easily penetrable, far from
bulletproof, shield I had claimed as my own. As we held each other to offer a
mutually disheartening and unconvincing sense of reassurance, the gunfire
continued to echo through the panicked atrium. Unbeknownst to myself, alongside
half of the student body cowering behind any and all available objects on the
left side of the building, we were currently safe from the psychotic gunman,
who had chosen to begin his planned massacre from the right side of the
school’s entrance.
As the chillingly audible sound of shots bellowed
through the deathly still atrium, I had no perception of where the gunfire was
originating, or where they would lead. I therefore took advantage of the brief
silence as a sign of cease fire and thereby prompted my shell shocked friend to
blindly follow me towards an exit to an adjoining hallway at the far end of the
cafeteria. Not only being ignorant as to where I was going, I was dangerously unaware
as to whether I had enough time to sufficiently coordinate my wobbly legs to
sprint towards my unknown destination. Leaving all rationale behind me, I fled
towards what looked like my only escape from a conscious nightmare; once again,
my shaken friend followed me without hesitation. Running faster than I thought
to be physically possible, my imagination manifested the gunman gripping at my
heels, provoking my body to attain unlikely momentum. Nearing the closed,
potentially locked door, the gunfire once again started the break the
unsettling silence, prompting a wave of unforgettably terrifying shrieks and
screams from throughout the college. Still unaware of the gunman’s proximity in
relation to my path to freedom, we maintained our fast pace until both I and my
friend passed through the cafeteria door, feeling the slightest bit safer from
the wrath of the mystery assassin.
Following the flood of fleeing students, like
trailing a herd of spooked sheep, we ended up back in the same computer lab we
had just left several minutes earlier. Walking into an already occupied room,
there seemed to be about a dozen trembling students, all speculating towards
the particulars of the crisis. Amongst the impromptu, unfounded theories, many
believed that there were two shooters in the building and that another lunatic
was making his way down from the sixth floor. Having heard that unsubstantiated,
yet worrisome piece of speculation, I began to feel as though my fate had been
subject to claustrophobia- my chances of staying alive were minimizing, reducing
my chance of escape. With nothing to do but join the rest of the entrapped
student body, my friend and I kneeled down by the far end of the computer room,
crouching under a desk already occupied by a few fearful students.
As we waited impatiently to be either optimistically
rescued or dreadfully discovered by a number of predators, there was nothing
left to do except initiate small talk in order to distract one another for as
long as possible. Despite the unfamiliarity that existed between this specific
group of students- due to the disconnection that existed within our large
student body- we had unfortunately gained common ground that day and bonded as
though we had been close friends for as long as we cared to remember. Trying to
divert the conversation away from the morbid speculation regarding the number
of our apparent captors, I turned to console my friend; one person I truly had
a vested interest in reassuring. Seeing the devastation in her brave façade, I attempted
to use comedy to lighten the situation and even provoke the smallest formation
of a smile, so I stated that she shouldn’t worry since, as all horror movies
have taught us, virgins never die. For once in my adolescent life, I used that
nonsensical cinematic convention to praise my delayed sexual experience.
Successfully provoking the slightest hint of laughter
from my preoccupied friend, I knew that playfulness and crude humor could not
make the thought of imminent doom fade from her bleak mind. Other than engaging
in ineffective chatter, my instinct was to contact my parents to inform them of
the troubling situation, despite the despair I would inevitably pass on to
them. Upon realizing that the cell phone reception was temporarily unavailable,
my paranoid mind assumed that it was the gunman’s conspiracy to block our means
of contact with the outside world. Although the reality of the situation was that
the volume of calls had congested the local reception, I had decided to hold
off on getting in touch with my parents until I was confident in saying that I
would be safe. We waited for a few more minutes, discussing our options and
wondering if we could barricade the door with a computer desk, only to get
discouraged by the fact that the door opened outwards, which made our bunker
quite vulnerable to intruders. Our conversation halted as all of our hearts
simultaneously dropped at the sound of the heavy door swinging open, exposing
our vulnerable group of prisoners to the danger that awaited in the atrium. We
all looked towards the open door, hoping to get a glimpse of an unexpected
superhero, who would conveniently reassure us that the assailant had been
captured and we were finally safe. Instead, our first glimpse through the
doorway was of a determined man with a handgun.
Fortunately, the man with the handgun was wearing a
police uniform and forcefully instructed the panicked group to quickly exit the
room with hands held in the air. Feeling like a suspect in the whole ordeal, I
nevertheless indulged the precautious police officer and put my hands over my
head, then wasted little time before running past his intimidatingly large
stature. Leaving the room, not yet feeling free enough to catch my breath in
relief, I circled around the corner, being directed by the leadership of the
brute officer, only to be greeted by another man pointing a gun in my
direction. Once again, my heart unnecessarily skipped a beat at the sight of a
man yielding a firearm when I realized that he was in fact another police
officer escorting us out in a protective manner.
I then obediently followed the second police
officer’s impatient directives, viewing the man as a hardened drill sergeant,
subsequently ending up going through a fire exit that brought me directly to
the street. The feelings of impending doom began to fade as I enjoyed the
polluted air and chaotic streets of downtown Montreal, realizing that I may
have very well survived an unimaginable crisis and overcame the lethal odds of
escaping from a deranged gunman. Even though we were free from the confines of
what felt like a predestined tombstone, it felt as though we lacked both the
direction and ability to compose our minds long enough to distance ourselves
more than a few feet from the college. We stood on the side street rattled,
lacking sufficient confidence to assure ourselves that we were finally safe.
The ability to achieve such confidence was once again hindered by the shrill
shriek of a fellow classmate exclaiming, “He’s got a gun!”
Panic immediately returned to the faces of the
recently extracted student body, instigating a stampede of traumatized young
adults, partaking in the flight defensive mechanism, since the instinct to fight
had become futile upon hearing the first shots a mere twenty minutes earlier.
As each student understandably ran to protect his and her own life, the crowd
of hysterical students gained speed, forcing the sluggish people in the group
to the ground. Suspecting that the impact of fifty charging students would
leave any fallen individual trampled, my fear escalated when my friend lost her
balance over the momentum of my racing feet, sending her tumbling to the
ground. In a swift motion, I reached down and grabbed her before the stampede
of victims left her injured and vulnerable. We continued to run down the street
until it was proclaimed that the second gunman was none other than a third police
officer in civilian clothing- an ill-advised law enforcement strategy that
could have been given a bit more foresight to avoid superfluous chaos.
Once we escaped what was thought to be another
threat, we finally shook off the recently instilled shock and ventured down a
main street to distance ourselves from the perpetual chaos that encompassed our
school. Walking arm in arm down the street, noticing that the rest of the
moving mob retained the same look of undeserved relief as was painted on each
of our disturbed faces, I responded to the many calls from friends and family members
who had received word of the incident on the news- even family members from across
the continent had been worried by the fast traveling news of the shooting.
Varying from light-hearted well wishes, to sincere inquiries towards my
well-being, I assured every person who called that I was safe and out of harm’s
way.
We collected ourselves and waited at a nearby metro
station, where my friend’s father was on his way to come and pick us up, as to
avoid being subjected to the frantic crowds and possibly of having the unknown
gunman flee via the underground transit system. Isolating ourselves from the
many groups of grief stricken students, we found solace on a solitary rock
adjacent to the metro entrance. My friend eventually gave into her volatile
emotions and broke down, unable to speak, only able to hold onto my sweater,
leaving a trace of blood from a wound inflicted by the earlier stampede of panicked
college students. That particular blood stain on a sweater I find difficulty in
wearing to this day, remains an indefinite visual reminder of the trauma
experienced by a dear friend on that devastating day.
For the remainder of the afternoon, even though we
were relatively safe from any known dangers, I was still concerned as to the
condition of the rest of the student body. I thought to myself that if- at the
very least- nobody was killed, the whole ordeal would fade with time, as
impermanent devastation typically does. Moreover, even if some students were
inflicted with the unthinkable injury of a gunshot wound, their bodies would
heal and nothing would have been physically taken from us. Despite my very last
attempt at finding a silver lining on an opaque and ominous incident, there had
indeed been something taken away from us.
Even though many escaped the unfortunately fatal
incident by means of evasiveness, quick thinking, or sheer luck- the latter
being my only reason for leaving the gunfire with pulse intact- one life had
been taken at the hands of a psychologically disturbed individual. One life had
been removed from an innocent young woman, who showed up at school on that
earth shattering day only to pursue higher education. Since this young woman
had been stripped of her future, I do in fact feel guilty for experiencing
emotions associated with being a victim. Not only do I feel guilty for constant
self-pity, while receiving sympathy from others even though I came out of the
incident physically unscathed, I feel guilty that I have retained the mental
capacity to remember that awful day, when that poor young woman cannot. As I am
sure many have recounted in their minds over and over, there is much I wish I
could have changed, but I am fortunate for the many serendipitous events that
kept me alive.
What started as an ordinary day quickly turned into a
dreaded memory that impacts how I remember my college days. It is a tragedy
that reminds me of the fear that imminent death is never very far off; on a
daily basis, from watching a movie in a theatre, to sitting at my office desk,
the fear of encountering another psychopath never dissipates. Since I can only
speak for myself, I am only able to share one account of the feelings
associated with experiencing a traumatic event, but I must say that for the
better part of a decade since the incident, the world has not felt as warm, people
do not seem as trustworthy, and my own mortality has never been more apparent.
Noting that there are no names mentioned in this
story to conserve confidentiality, it must be said that countless people with
names, faces, and unique personalities, were very much affected by this
tragedy. These individuals cope and heal in their own way, as best and as
quickly as they can, but it is safe to say that the scar of immense trauma will
forever be slashed onto each and everyone’s psyche. As for the man who caused
unspeakable grief, I choose not to identify him by name or acknowledge his
existence; the morally bankrupt entity that disrupted an entire population,
subsequently ruining healthy futures for thousands, should be regarded as
nothing more than a social problem and a mentally ill organism. It is my belief
that no single person should be granted power over another, which is why the
reality of the life this particular organism selfishly took, is more than I can
stand to bear.
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