Dennis Abrams - What Happens After

Table of Contents

By Dennis Abrams

Collin and his best friend, Nate, are high school juniors living in a suburb of Houston, where the politically and culturally conservative attitude makes coming out beyond difficult. One night they decide it would be a bit of harmless fun to sneak into a gay club in the citya chance to dance, check out guys, and meet others like themselves.

They couldnt be more wrong.

In minutes everything Collin took for granted is destroyed when a shooters bullets tear through the club. Collin survives, but thats only the start of his ordeal. In the aftermath he has to face the loss of his friend, survivors guilt, the pain of his wounds, and judgment when hes outed on a national level. Making it through his last year of school feels impossible when life as he knew it will never be the same.

To those who were there at Pulse that awful night, to those who were killed, and to those who survived to tell their stories to the world.

SO MANY people to thank, so many people who helped make this book possible.

Shelley Tanaka for pushing me and pushing me.

Dee Dillman and Jennifer Praeger and Pam Hoodes and Jeanne Badman and Steve Cole and Griffin Shea and Laura Deegan McAdams and Edward Nawotka and Alana Wilcox and Leah von Essen and Charles Brack and Joe Babcock and Paxton Malone and Jason Hoffart, all of whom read the manuscript, sometimes several times, and offered suggestions and advice and encouragement.

Amade, who was there for me.

Ernesto Mestre Reed, who went well beyond the call of duty and friendship.

And finally Anderson Cooper, whose heartbreaking coverage of the shooting at Pulse helped me to see the need to tell Collins story.

HERES THE thing.

No, the thing is.

No, definitely this is the thing.

So heres the thing.

My name is Collin Williams.

If the name sounds familiar, theres good reason for it. For the last few months, my name has been all over the place. Everywhere you looked. On the news. In newspapers. On cable. On the net. You really couldnt miss me, even if you tried.

This I know for sure, because God knows I did try. But I couldnt escape me. Or get away from me.

In many ways.

In all ways.

In every way.

You see, I am one of the ones who was there when it happened. When it happened.

I am one of the lucky ones who made it out and survived.

Lucky ones.

Survived.

At least thats what they keep telling me.

Heres the thing, though. Sometimes I dont feel so lucky. I cant figure out why I made it and others didnt.

Others.

Nate.

Oh, Nate.

Its been rough. For me. My family. My friends. Everyone.

Its the mirror that tells the story. That tells my story. The story of that night.

The face I see looking back at me is not the one I had before it happened.

I look tired.

Still.

Like I just pulled off a month-long all-nighter.

All the way tired. Stressed-out. Worried. Scared. Angry. Thin. Older.

My hair looks pretty awful because I dont care enough to do anything about it, and my skin looks even worse.

Its in my eyes that you see it the most, though. Theyre eyes that have seen too much. That know too much. That have seen things that nobody should ever see. Ever. Things I wish Id never seen.

Things I wish I could unsee.

Have you ever seen a war film where they show the soldier after the war ended and hes back home where he should feel safe, but theres always a close-up of his eyes looking all sunken and haunted and he seems to be seeing something nobody else sees? Something beyond what everyone else is seeing?

Something thats not in the frame. Something thats not there.

Ghosts of the past, maybe?

Thats me. Those are my eyes when I look in the mirror.

A little less now, for sure. Its getting better. But still.

Mom always tells me that eyes are the windows to the soul. If thats the case, then I think my soul has been seriously damaged. Messed up. Fucked up. Permanently, maybe.

Mom also tells me that Im like her: we dont like to talk about ourselves; we dont want to talk about the bad things that happen to us with others. We worry, she says, that others wont understand. Or dont really want to understand.

Or maybe we worry that theyll understand all too well.

I know that talking about what happened is supposed to make me feel better. But I seriously doubt that.

Honestly, Im not sure if anythings going to make me better. Or if I ever will be. Completely anyway.

Im not even sure I should be.

Im no longer Collin. Im no longer the guy just about to start his senior year in high school and worried about college. Im no longer the guy I thought I was before it happened. Im him. The guy. That guy. The kid that people point at. And whisper about. And feel sorry for. Or dont feel sorry for, as the case may be.

But since everyone wants to know about it.

Here it is.

The story of that night. Of what happened a little over two months ago.

And then what happens after.

HERES THE thing. Before it all happened, I was a totally normal teen. Totally.

At least kind of, I suppose.

Or at least thats how I saw myself.

Not too tall, not too short. Three years on the soccer team at Eisenhower High School kept me in pretty decent shape. Im not the kind of guy youd avoid looking at if you passed me in the hall, but probably not the kind of guy youd look at a second time either.

I was kind of there and not there, if you know what I mean. Im not, or wasnt, really a jock, I wasnt exactly a brain (my grades are good but nothing amazing), I wasnt labeled a geek, or arty, not much of anything you can put your finger on. I was just that guy youd see in your class or during lunch or around town (in my case Piney Oaks, Texas) after school somewhere and who you wouldnt ever think twice about.

Until the moment I opened fire in a crowded classroom or something.

Sorry, bad joke.

But that worked for me; that was the way I wanted it, or thought I wanted it. I kept my head low and kept myself to myself. Breakfast at home with the parents. School. Soccer. Homework. Work at Freezie Treats three afternoons a week after school and Saturday afternoons. Mess around online. Bed.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

Its not like I didnt have friends. I did. Well, kind of, anyway. I had a couple of buds on the soccer team, and some other guys I knew well enough to hang out with at lunch, but I guess that was really about it.

No one who counted as a real friend, the kind you could tell anything to. The kind you shared your life with.

But at the start of my junior year, my guidance counselor told me I needed to join an afternoon school club of some kind to bump up my chances of getting into a decent college. Something artistic would be good, he said. Something to balance out the soccer. And since drama club seemed to be the easiest one to get through, I signed up.

Thats where I met Nate.

Nate Jonson, to be precise. Not Nate Hamilton, who played football and most definitely was not my Nate.

Like me, my Nate is, or, um, was, average beyond any reasonable doubt. Failed to make the soccer team, but crushed it in debate. Good-looking but not so much youd be afraid to talk to him. Boy Next Door, I guess youd call him. A too-skinny blond with blue eyes that sparkled and seemed to see everything and know even more while all the while appearing to be amused by it all.

Our friendship was immediate. We were sitting next to each other while some science nerd was trying and failing miserably to get through a short monologue. We rolled our eyes at each other at the same moment. I whispered, Can you believe this guy?