People analyze the role of transphobia in the discussion. People say this is what happens when freaks teach our kids. They post pictures of Mrs. Sherman and Pete, side by side. People think Pete is a deviant. People think Pete is a hero.

People don’t blame me for what I did. Others do. People think our generation is spoiled and entitled. People are all obsessed with online bullying and gangs and how little parents know these days. There are charts and screenshots of all of the online behavior leading up to the “attack.” There are pictures of all my revenge screen sirens with articles about violence in the media and its impact on young minds. Students at our school are shown tearfully holding each other in photos. They are interviewed as experts on me, on the school, on what happened. People have poured over my video channel looking for some secret evidence of mental illness, sadness, depression, aggression, plans for violence. They say I am crazy. They tell me in the comments that I should try again, but this time kill myself. They say I am the product of rape culture. They say rape culture is bullshit. They say I am ugly. They say I am beautiful.

They say nothing about Dee. They never knew her. She never showed herself to anyone but me, and now she is gone. Disappeared like she never existed. She was a casualty. It’s hard for me to even call her face to memory. What did she look like again? What did she sound like? Gone. Fractals of color, 24mm per second, on the cutting room floor. Parts of me, edited out.

*   *   *

School is over. All the lockers have been scrubbed clean. Notices taken down. The graffiti power-washed off the bricks. The counselors, who came to school for the last few days, have left. The Makers’ Space is closed indefinitely.

I know all this because Matthew has been here with me. Quiet, strong Matthew. I don’t ask why he comes. I don’t push it. I accept his presence. Visiting me. Visiting Pete. He reads silently beside me. He teaches me how to play Magic: The Gathering. Sometimes he shows me what people are saying online, until he decides I’ve seen enough. He says there is nothing good on there and he is right.

When I’m alone, I lie in my bed and stare at the hospital ceiling. I count the little holes in the discolored squares and remember how it looked when the same ones blew apart at school. I lose count and start again. I look out the window. I feel so much, and then so little: shame, self-loathing, disgust, anger, frustration, then nothing: medicated boredom. The days pass, clouds flitting across the sky, and mostly my mind is empty. I think nothing. I am holding myself, floating above it, because if I look down, I’ll feel everything. It is too deep, too far.