The days that followed the shootout were a blur for Alex and Jake. They were questioned by the police, forced to relive the trauma of that night over and over again.
The police station was a cold and impersonal place, with fluorescent lights that seemed to hum with an otherworldly energy. Alex and Jake sat in a small, windowless room, surrounded by stern-faced detectives who fired question after question at them.
"Can you describe the shooter?" one of the detectives asked, his voice firm but not unkind.
Alex hesitated, unsure of how to answer. He had seen Elijah's face, had seen the twisted gleam in his eye as he fired the gun. But somehow, putting it into words seemed impossible.
"I...I don't know," Alex stammered, feeling a wave of shame wash over him.
The detective nodded sympathetically. "It's okay, kid. Take your time."
But as the questioning continued, it became clear that the incident had taken a massive toll on both Alex and Jake. They were struggling to sleep, struggling to eat. They were haunted by nightmares, flashbacks to the sound of gunfire and the sight of Elijah's body.
Their parents were worried, desperate to get them the help they needed. But Alex and Jake were resistant, refusing to admit that they needed help.
"I'm fine," Alex said, when his parents suggested that he see a therapist. "I just need some time to process everything."
But as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that Alex and Jake were not fine. They were struggling to cope with the trauma of that night, and it was starting to take a toll on their physical health.
Alex was vomiting every morning, his stomach churning with anxiety. Jake was having debilitating migraines, his head pounding with a relentless intensity.
Their parents were at a loss, didn't know how to help them. And so, with a heavy heart, they made the difficult decision to have Alex and Jake admitted to a psychiatric ward.
As they were led away in handcuffs, Alex and Jake felt a sense of shame, of failure. They had thought they were stronger, that they could handle the trauma on their own.
But as they looked at each other, they knew that they were in this together. They would face their demons, would work through their trauma.
The psychiatric ward was a sterile and impersonal place, with rows of hospital beds and a staff of nurses and doctors who seemed to be always watching.
Alex and Jake were given a battery of tests, including psychological evaluations and physical exams. They were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and began a regimen of therapy and medication.
But as the days turned into weeks, it became clear that Alex and Jake were struggling to cope. They were having suicidal thoughts, were becoming increasingly withdrawn.
Their parents were worried, desperate to get them the help they needed. They sat by their bedsides, holding their hands and talking to them in soft, soothing voices.
"We're here for you," Alex's mother said, her eyes shining with tears. "We'll get through this together."
But as Alex looked at his mother, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was beyond help. He was broken, shattered by the trauma of that night.
And as he drifted off to sleep, surrounded by the sterile walls of the hospital, Alex knew that he had a long and difficult journey ahead of him.