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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11. The Gunman

~~The teacher had made me angry; I stormed out of the room, snarling to myself. She was wrong; she didn’t know the power that the guns lent you. The overwhelming feeling of being able to decide. It was great! Better than that old hag would ever know.
I swung my foot back to kick one of the lockers. When I let my foot glide forward, the loud cling moved down the hall like a ghost, every one heard it, but nobody could see it. The new black boots I had worn to the school that day were covered in red splotches. A smile of satisfaction spread across my lips, scratching against the itchy mask.
My feet lead me to a classroom that I knew would bring me some resolve, some answers. I didn’t even bother using a bullet on that locked door, my boot just kicked, once, right by the door handle, and it splintered open. The fear in the room was almost tangible, and I loved it. Knowing that it was directed towards me.
 “Matthews!” I yelled out the kids last name, knowing he was in there. A kid with blue eyes, fair skin, and brown hair stood on shaky legs. He looked different than I remembered him, of course he would be taller, but he also had something about him that made me pity him. It was something in those eyes, those watery blue eyes that said he had been through too much since seventh grade, four years ago. He didn’t say a word to me, just looked at me like I was a monster, the same look he gave me all those years ago, when I got my first beating.
 He was one of my old friends, the one that approached me to deliver the first blow to the gut. My pity slowly faded as I remembered what he had done to me, and what he did after that:

 My mother had let me stay home after the beating for nearly two weeks. I was too afraid, too powerless to want to go back to school. So my mother set up a secret ‘play date’ with Andrew Matthews. My mom wanted me to get over my fear, she said it was holding me back from the great things I could accomplish one day.
 So one day, Andrew showed up on my parents’ front porch. He glared at me with his fearsome blue eyes, I felt like I was under a microscope. My mind didn’t know why he was there; I thought he was going to apologize. Then, his mother stood behind him, smiling at me warmly. That’s when I realized they had wanted to put us together, to get us to get along again. Or, in their words as they sent us off, “Play nice.”
 When we were all alone, I thought he was going to hit me, but he just stood there. His glare seemed deadly, and I squirmed uncomfortably. There were no words spoken for many long minutes. Then, I said, very quietly, “What did I do?” That question had been racing through my mind for those two weeks since the beating, never leaving my mind.
 He stood there, arms crossed, chin out. He held the power in that situation and he knew it. No words passed his lips, he waited, knowing I would stand there as long as it took him to answer my question, then he slowly said, “Remember Travis?”
 My eyes bugged out, it was the kid that had died a year earlier. He was a nice kid, but he got diagnosed with terminal cancer, and before long he was just gone. I was his best friend for many years, but I didn’t know what that had to do with the hate.
 “Well,” Andrew started, “A few weeks ago they discovered a journal he kept, sharing memories, stories, and secrets.” I nodded, still not knowing what this was about, “Most of the secrets were secrets about us.” By us he meant him and our friends, not him and me. “It talked about the story where I stole that one kid’s bike, right out of his yard. You are the only one I told about that. I got in major trouble by my parents when they read that. Then there were stories about the others, which we connected to you telling as well. They are now grounded for weeks! However, the worst thing in that journal was the story with Donald.” My eyes filled with tears at the memory, me standing by the sidelines as they threw five year old Donald Newton in the lake, only to realize too late that he couldn’t swim.
 They had left the kid, to my dismay at the bottom of the lake. They were too afraid to tell the truth, so they just ran. I stayed, staring at the peaceful water until it began to grow dark in the sky.
 The next day, I had told the only person I knew would understand, Travis. He had listened to my story, not judging a single thing I said. And yes, I had watched him write it down in his journal, but he purposefully left my name out of it.
 The story ran on the news for a few days, until the anchor got sick of talking about the little boy at the bottom of the algae filled lake. They summed it up to him just jumping in, all by himself. They said his parents should have been supervising him, and that he should have known better to jump in all by himself.
 My eyes looked up to Andrew’s, “What happened? Are you guys in trouble for that?” I said it so lamely, so shocked at the memory that I had long forgotten. Though, I had no idea how I could have forgotten that.
 “They didn’t investigate, since it happened so long ago. Plus, they didn’t have enough proof so they dropped it. The only thing is what could have happened. We could have gotten put in gotten arrested for murder! All because of you!” His hands flung everywhere, wild. I flinched backwards falling down, “And trust me kid, this is just the beginning.”
 After that, he had left and I had gone to school that following Monday. None of my old friends said a single word to me as I walked alone down the middle school hallways. Throughout the next four years I would get pushed, punched, and called many different names. And it all led up to the moment where I raised my gun, looked Andrew right in his blue eyes, and pulled the trigger.

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