The Gunman

A bang. A pop. A explosion. Whatever you choose to call it, made its way through a school, changing lives in an instant. A gunman had made his way to the shool, done with the years of torture and bullying. It was his time to make a statement. This story follows many different perspectives of the shooting going from parents, to victims, to survivors, and even to the shooter himself. Read the feelings of people trying to escape.

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8. Mrs. Wellington

~~I had my students tucked away, under their desks, computer desks, and my desk, when the door flew open. My breath flew into my shocked, open mouth as the masked boy walked into my usually friendly classroom. My mouth hung open upon seeing the guns he carried in his waistband, along with his nearly endless ammunition.
All my students flinched, moving backwards in their spots. I feared more for them than for me. I was just a little old lady, at the age of sixty-four. That was going to be my last year of teaching before retirement. So I had lived my life, done what I wanted with it. The kids, though, still had their whole lives ahead of them. Looking at all my kids in my class just then, I knew what I had to do.
“Hello?” I said to the gunman, who still stood in the front of the classroom, “Who are you?” My voice wobbled, not really noticeable to anybody but me.
The boy looked at me, the disgust was written all over his face. I could have never imagined anything in the world that could twist a human being to be filled with so much hate for the world. “I’m the guy with the gun.” He lifted his gun up, as if I hadn’t seen the object in his hand before now.
“I see that,” I nodded, “But tell me, what good do those guns bring you? It seems all that follows them is destruction. How could you possibly get joy out of this?” My arms motioned to the children hiding under their desks, eyes widened with fear.
“What couldn’t these guns bring me? They give me power, I just pull a trigger and the person I aim it at falls. That’s the joy, the power brings me joy.” Madness flashed across his eyes, and I took a step back in a moment of fear.
Then I regained my composure, “Guns don’t show power, they show weakness.” I barked, “Killing doesn’t give you strength, it just shows you can’t handle life. Since the beginning of time people have been hurt, bullied, and bruised. Everyone has been in their lifetime at least once. There are some who show restraint, confidence, and strength. Those are the ones that keep living, wake up every morning knowing a better tomorrow is coming. Then, there are those who buckle under the pressure, can’t take it anymore. So they kill themselves. Then, come the ones who can’t even kill themselves due to fear, so they kill other people, hurt other people. Every single one of those people mentioned, has had the same experience as you. Yet, they don’t need to kill to feel better about themselves? Who do you really think carries the power of those three?” I stepped forward one step at the end of my lecture, and looked him in the eyes.
He scowled with his eyes and snarled, “Whichever one has the gun.” Then, a loud bang filled the room, and I was on the ground. I felt instant pain in my left shoulder, and saw a pool of red surround my body in a matter of seconds. Only short gulps of air made it to my lungs as I gasped on the floor and squirmed around. I watched, with wide eyes, as he ignored the kids in my class and just walked away. I had saved the children, that was all that mattered.
 

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