The multipurpose hall had never felt this suffocating. Normally, it was a place of noise—debates, morning rehearsals, annual day practice, laughter echoing against the high ceiling. But now, silence hung heavy, broken only by the muffled sobs of children and the restless shuffle of feet on the marble floor.
The terrorists had forced all of us inside, corralling hundreds of students and teachers like frightened animals. Fans spun slowly overhead, groaning, stirring the air that was already hot with panic. The sharp smell of sweat mixed with the acrid sting of gunpowder still clung to their weapons.
I sat with my classmates, knees pressed to my chest, the spot where the gun had touched my temple still burning cold on my skin. My teacher whispered prayers under her breath, her eyes darting to the armed men patrolling the room.
The leader stood on the small stage at the front of the hall. His mask covered everything but his eyes, which glowed with a strange fire—anger, but something more, something darker. He raised his rifle in the air, firing once into the ceiling. BANG! The sound echoed like thunder, silencing even the softest sob.
"You think your school is safe," he growled, voice amplified by the hall's natural echo. "You think you live in peace while children like you, across the border, die every day."
A hush fell over us. His words slithered into our ears, terribly.
Another terrorist dragged the boy who had spoken over the mic earlier onto the stage. The poor kid's face was pale, streaked with tears. He stumbled, tripping over his shoes, but the man shoved him upright, pressing a gun barrel to his back.
The leader continued:
"We came here because your government thinks it can ignore us. It sends soldiers to kill ours. But today, you will all know their cruelty. You will be our message."
Gasps rippled through the students. Some of the younger ones broke into uncontrollable crying, only to be silenced by the glare of rifles.
I felt my stomach twist. Message. We were not just captives—we were bargaining chips.
At the far end of the hall, two terrorists whispered urgently to each other. One pulled a small radio from his vest, crackling with static. The words were unclear, but I caught enough:
"…police… perimeter… time is short."
So the police knew. They were outside.
My heart raced faster. If the police were out there, maybe rescue was possible. But the thought was a double-edged sword, because trapped terrorists with guns and no way out could do anything.
A hand shot up from the student crowd. It was Ryan, the class topper, always bold in debates, always questioning. His voice trembled now, but carried across the hall.
"Why… why us? We are children. What have we done to you?"
The leader's head snapped toward him. The silence that followed was so sharp it hurt.
Slowly, he walked down the stage, boots thudding against the floor, rifle swaying at his side. He stopped in front of Ryan, towering over him. Then, without warning, he slammed the butt of his gun against the boy's desk, making everyone flinch.
"Because," he hissed, "your deaths will make the world listen."
He pressed the barrel of the gun under Ryan's chin. A collective gasp filled the hall. My chest tightened—I wanted to shout, to stop him, but my throat was stone.
The leader's finger hovered over the trigger. Seconds stretched like hours. The sound of a sobbing girl filled the silence, fragile and broken.
And then—suddenly—another voice cracked through the speakers.
"Don't hurt him! Please!"
Everyone's eyes shot toward the source. It wasn't the terrorists this time. It was the PA system—the mic near the washrooms again. Somehow, another student had gotten hold of it.
"Crackling came over the line, then a worried voice said:
'The police are outside! Wait! Don't—'"
The announcement cut off with a loud thud. The mic had been yanked away.
The terrorists roared in fury. One sprinted out of the hall, gun swinging, to drag back whoever had dared to speak. The rest waved their rifles, shouting for silence.
The leader's voice thundered again, louder, harsher:
"You think the police will save you?!" He fired another shot into the ceiling. Dust rained down. Children screamed.
"They will bring your death faster. If they try to enter, this hall will be your grave."
He raised his arm, pointing toward the windows where faint blue-and-red flashes blinked in the distance. Police cars. The city was outside. Hope—so close, yet so far.
But hope was dangerous. Because every second it lived, the terrorists grew more desperate.
And desperate men with the guitar they have,
don't think. I said internally to myself!