A well-worn and pitted Beretta fell to Earth with a thud that only fell on deaf, inattentive ears. Screams, pressing silence, a din not unlike a rushing avalanche assaulted my senses and forcefully narrowed my focus to one single point in front of me, one important detail. Vivid crimson flowered across the narrow spread of his chest, his life escaped him as he gave no effort to keep it. And he spoke, perhaps to the world, perhaps only to me:

 

“I didn't want to hurt anyone,”

 

 

 

Fifteen minutes, thirty-seven seconds ago: he's shuffling through the gloomy atrium of the high school that the State determined that he would attend two years prior. The space is empty, classes that have been in session will end in two minutes and the student body will flood like wild salmon into the laminate-floored, locker-lined halls. This is what he is planning on.

 

He is walking in slow, measured strides, meandering his way forward with no real destination in mind. He doesn't have to find his quarry, his quarry will find him in one minute, thirteen seconds. They will not know what is coming to them, they will not know what has happened to them until the shouts and the copper tang of blood and the strong stink of cordite have faded away. They will never understand why it has happened to them, they will not be able to explain what they did to deserve this. Twelve seconds until period's end.

 

He stops mid-stride in the center of the hall starkly splashed in the fluorescence of cheap wholesale bulbs. He breathes deeply, imbibing the scent of humans and disinfectant. For these next ten seconds, he is all alone but not lonely, the nine-millimeter that he lifted from his father's old footlocker is there for him.

 

Class is over. The first several, eager students file into the hallways, likely more eager to find their acquaintances than to make it in to the next lesson. He is stationary, waiting. Within thirty more seconds, the throng is pushing and pulling him, the human wave ebbing and flowing, threatening to take him with it. He does not allow it to. His hand disappears behind him, his white-knuckled fingers wrap around the well-worn polycarbonate grip of his father's pistol, safely hidden in his waistband, under the expensive sweater that his mother bought him for Christmas.

 

It is released; the monster is uncaged, borne aloft by this teenager's skinny arm. It reaches it's apex and he fires it into the air, a warning shot, a roaring retort meant only to inspire mass panic.

 

Those who process gunfire for what it is fall to laminate instantly, limbs covering heads as animalistic instinct takes hold. Those who do not realize what is happening fast enough are fired upon. He does not prioritize targets, he does not mean any one person more harm than another. He does not aim for center of mass. He does not necessarily shoot to kill. Some soul in some other part of the building has the presence of mind to phone the authorities.

 

Soon the atmosphere is thick with blood and sweat and panic, there are screams, there are moans of pain from those who can muster them, there is nothing but mute silence from those who cannot. He is elated, he has had more effect than he had planned to. He goes to fire again on a figure brave enough to turn tail and run but is met with only the click of the firing pin and an empty chamber. He is glad that he brought a spare magazine. He is glad that his father taught him how to use the weapon as he reloads with practiced ease. He clicks the slide back, chambers another round and vocalizes his glee as he nearly empties this second clip into the writhing mass of fully grown people who are really just children at heart.

 

It has been five minutes, thirty-seven seconds since classes stopped. The first faint whine of sirens can be heard outside. He knows they are coming for him. He lowers his almost spent weapon and exits the way he entered, meeting no resistance, leaving behind him his legacy.

 

Aromatic early-spring air and brilliant sunshine hit him, a drastic change to the freshly-stained school interior. The entrance of the school is now blockaded by a veritable armada of assorted state service vehicles in varying shapes and sizes. There are men and women with weapons, all seemingly trained on his very torso with more intent to kill than he himself had when unleashing his monster upon unsuspecting students. They want to kill him but he may not let them. He does have one more bullet remaining, waiting in it's chamber, ready, itching to rip through flesh and bone.

 

I am one of those outside awaiting our villain, I am poised within the safe haven of a patrol car door, I have my own weapon set upon our target and I am struck by his normalcy. There is nothing about him that would suggest that he is capable of what we would find when we would finally breach the doors of the local high school with aid for his victims. I am shaken by the slight grin playing around his lips. He cannot be older than sixteen.

 

My compatriot sends the order for him to drop his weapon, he ignores this and seven minutes or one entire eternity pass in tightly coiled silence.

 

We understand that the more time passes, the more people may do the same. We have to end the stalemate but we have no pieces to play. One brave or stupid officer inches closer to our suspect but he simply retreats, saying nothing. That same brave or very stupid officer calls out to him, his voice cracks from nerves.

 

“Put the gun down, we can help you if you come with us.” Our villain remains immobile, that same unhinged grin spreading across his face.

 

Sounds, scuffling behind our blue and red flashing wall, hurried but hushed voices dissect the situation unfolding before us all.

 

“The fucking media is here.” My partner growls beside me. I know this without needing to look. They can smell pain. They make their dollar on it.

 

Our villain's demeanor changes with their arrival. His grin falls from his otherwise perfectly normal visage, he catches sight of a camera aimed at him with the same trained precision as the weapons that we hold. He opens his mouth ever so slightly, inhales as if in preparation to speak. It is fifteen minutes and thirty-four seconds after he entered the school.

 

He raises his weapon, his finger tightens on the filed-down trigger but he never has the chance to release his monster again; this time the roaring bullets fly from our end, providing an abrupt end to the saga unfolding before this place of learning. This place will never be the same.

 

Scarlet blossoms sprang up on his chest, beautiful in a bizarre way as he tumbled to concrete in a heap. And he spoke:

 

“I didn't want to hurt anyone. I only wanted to be famous.”