Infected

You wake up to a number. Only thirteen today, your wife says. Only. You remember when thirteen was a magnificently large number, worthy of a week or more of headline news stories. Now it’s only thirteen because yesterday seventy-three were killed in Columbus when a man walked into a movie theater and blew himself up with a homemade bomb. The day before that it was twenty-seven in Davis, where an elderly woman poisoned the mashed potatoes at all-you-can-eat buffet. Not a day goes by when you don’t wake up to a number.

It used to be terrorists you were afraid of. The darker-skinned religious radicals. The ones that only showed their eyes. They were easy to profile. Easy to avoid. But then it was some white middle-class teenager in Tallahassee. And then a Native-American woman in Boise. And then an elderly black man in Atlanta. Profiling was suddenly useless. They would strike anytime. Anywhere. No warning signs. Almost always on suicide missions. And when they are captured alive, they always have the same empty look in their eyes. Like deer caught in the headlights. And they always say the same thing: They deserved it. We all deserve it.

They tried a ban on guns. That’s when the bombs started. And the knives, axes, swords. It only got worse. So you blamed the President. You helped to elect him out of office. You blamed the gun ban. You helped to get it overturned. And then you bought a semi-automatic assault rifle. For protection. Years ago you wouldn’t have cared. But now you have a wife. A daughter. A responsibility to protect them. So you take them to the firing range. You teach them how to use the weapon. You teach them how to protect themselves. But you pray that they’ll never have to.

You hear it on the radio. The breaking news story you’ve been dreading. There’s been a mass shooting at your daughter’s middle school. You drop whatever you’re doing and rush to the scene. You’re stopped at the yellow police tape. An FBI Agent has questions for you. Do you own a semi-automatic assault rifle? Did your daughter have access to it? At first, you’re confused. Why are they you asking you these questions? And then you notice everyone is staring at you. The police. The victims’ parents. The news crews.

You must have known. There must have been warning signs. The FBI tears apart your house. They question everyone you know. The news people won’t leave you alone. Your phone won’t stop ringing. They camp out in front of your home. Your work. They demand answers. Until the story dies down. Until a college basketball player blows up his home arena during the third quarter of a close game. Over 1,200 dead. Instant ratings bait.

Even after they’ve gone, they’re still there. Your phone is tapped. Your computer monitored. Your guns apprehended. You’ve lost your job. Your wife has left. And you can’t stop thinking about your daughter. Why did she do what she did? What did she know that you don’t? There must be something. There’s no way a thirteen year old girl would murder her entire class unless she had a good reason. Did they deserve it? you wonder. Do we all deserve it? You start thinking about your next move. Your daughter took out twenty-two. Could you do double that? Triple? You fall asleep dreaming of numbers.