Personal Narrative: The Hall Of Liberty High School

The first shot was fired, and immediately the school was abuzz with terror. The halls of Liberty High, once filled with laughter and joy, were now filled with screams and fear.
“Nicole! Nicole!” I hear my best friend, Cristina Tate, yell. We find each other, and her dark, brown eyes meet mine. The two of us hug each other, with teas streams down our relieved faces. I hear nervousness in her voice, almost as if she were up to something, but I let it slip my mind.
From across the hall I see my boyfriend, Alex Fouley. He comes over to me, a look of reassurance in his eyes, probably because I am alive.
“Come with me,” he says as he escorts us to a vacant classroom, “Stay here, don’t move.”
We enter the classroom of Mrs. Greene, the new reading
She then pulls the trigger, and a bullet is fired into my chest. As my vision fades away, the last thing that I see is Cristina mouth “I’m so sorry”.
I wake up in an unfamiliar room, I think that it is a hospital, and I hear millions of noises and murmurs around me. I hear beeps and screams, and I see a lobby full of people. I see a nurse walking toward me, but I cannot make out what she is saying. The nurse starts to take some of the wires and tubes off of me, and then she rolls my bed and I into the hallway. A few other doctors and nurses join her along my bedside, and they all wheel me into an operating room. I see a dry erase board to the left of me and it says “Procedure: Bullet Removal”.
I start hyperventilating, and the doctors immediately run over to me. They all start yelling things that I still cannot understand, which makes me even more worried. All I can think is “What is going on?” or “What is wrong with me?” Suddenly, I am covered with a mask, and anesthesia is inserted into my body.
I’ve always wondered how the patient felt during surgery; do they feel everything, do they feel nothing, can they hear what the surgeons say? Contrary to my belief, I actually feel nothing, but I can, unlike before, hear everything that the surgeons
I hear a door open and close, and by the amount of relieved sighs in the room I can tell that it is the head of the cardiothoracic department.
“What the heck happened here?” he asks in a concerned voice, “How am I supposed to fix this mess?” To be referred to as a mess while on the operating table is not a good feeling in the slightest.
After this, I can’t bear to listen anymore. Although I am able to hear every word that is said around me, I guess that I also have the ability to tune anything out. Once what feels like forever has passed, I decide to face whatever is currently occurring. “This is it,” I think to myself, “It is now or never… literally”.
I tune is the world around me, and all I hear is the slightest noise of a beeping monitor. There is no longer the panic or dumbfounded interns or the astonishment of surgery-craving residents.
“Nice work Dr. Franzel,” one of the assistants say.
“Yes, thank you,” he responds. I am so relieved to hear that my condition has improved. If I would have heard more panic or frustration, I think that my own pessimism would have killed me on its own. The doctor then announces that he is closing me up, and my vision and hearing are impaired once