I was a sophomore in high school, and my class had just gotten back after a field trip in town. I remember hearing a knock on the door; my teacher answered it, talked a bit and then immediately told all of us to get under our desks. We had no idea what was happening. We thought it was a drill.
Our principal spoke on the intercom, telling the school that there had been a shooting. My teacher had all of us move to the side of the room opposite to the door opening. We huddled together, in fear that there was an active shooter on campus. It was like that for an hour.
We later got news that a boy had killed himself in a classroom. Some people came into our room and had a student walk out with them. She was his sister. We were under lockdown for three-plus hours, with constant sirens around us. For more than a year afterwards, I felt intense anxiety whenever I heard sirens. I struggled with knowing that I’d gone through what I believed wouldn’t happen in my school. It’s been eight years since then, and the fear continues to haunt me.