Upstairs from a shooting

I thought this story belonged here for years, and I am writing it the way I have told it to friends.

My father was a live-in maintenance worker at a cultural centre, where he opened, closed, set up, and cleaned up after events. One evening he was working security for a dance competition in the largest function room. I was upstairs in our apartment playing a game on my computer when a young man suddenly ripped open the front door, barged into the living room, and locked the door behind him.

I asked who he was and what he was doing. He stammered that somebody was shooting downstairs. A cold flush went through me because my father was down there. I checked the young man’s hands and saw that he was not holding anything. He ran toward my room, opened a window, tore out the mosquito screen, and tried to climb out. People were banging on the locked front door, but I could not let him jump from the upper floor. I pulled him back and told him he was more likely to survive the shooter inside than by jumping.

That calmed him enough for me to open the door. Around twenty panicked people rushed inside. After some of them realized that the space was a residence, they herded everyone into the kitchen. People were on their phones, crying, shaken, and calling the police, relatives, and friends. Soon they asked where the nearest exit was. I explained that it was on the ground floor beside the function room. When things had quieted down, everyone made a break for it. I locked the door with my keys and followed them to look for my father.

An ambulance was already trying to save the person who had been shot. My father was safe, although the panicking crowd had trampled him when he opened the emergency doors.

He later told me that someone had fired three shots while the competition winner was being announced, striking the winner in the head. I do not know what happened with the other shots. Police searched the building for evidence, and officers secured the function room for an extended period. I had to explain who I was each time I returned home.

The victim later died from the injuries. As far as I know, the shooter was never found.