I never figured a mass murder would be like this.

                I mean that in the sense that I have never experienced it fully. I may see the aftermath on the News, the censored version, with the bodies covered up and the blood blurred out. Maybe a few eyewitness accounts of the murderer or screams in the night. Maybe even a video from someone on scene with their crappy cameras on their phones. But most of the bodies would be covered up in tarps, leaving America to their imaginations.

                Maybe you get it in the moment, they catch the murderer in the act, a few people dead, and another few injured, a lot of censored blood again. Only passing glimpses of the victims as they’re rushed to the hospital. If you’re lucky, they have the murderer in handcuffs with his face blurred out. Exciting stuff right? Then of course you change the channel to watch reruns of your favorite shows, already moving on from the lives of the people affected.

                It’s very different when the murderer is thirty feet from you, a firearm that’s barely legal hanging carelessly from his arm, trying to find you while you try and keep your breathing quiet. But you’re hyperventilating, because this can’t be real this can’t be real this can’t be real what is happening why why why me please oh God please don’t find me…

                There are people on the floor, some barely look dead, and others are still spurting blood from the many, many gunshot wounds to the legs, the arms, the chest… There’s blood on your hand, draining from one of the nearby bodies, and you have to hold your clean hand to your mouth so you don’t gag or scream. You get flashbacks to when you were a kid, playing hide and seek with your friends, and you realize you didn’t pick a very good hiding spot. Under a desk, trying to crouch and hope the murderer doesn’t see you with the mass of other bodies lying on the floor.

                You see that he’s looking around, like a predator, not even human anymore, calculating and trying to figure out if there is anything still alive. You aren’t worth his time if there are other targets that are easier to catch off guard. You hate that you’re praying for him to go to the next room, just don’t kill me, kill whoever else you want but just don’t kill me.

                He turns, maybe hearing screams from another room, the locking of doors just beyond, or maybe he’s just bored. And just like that he’s gone, his footsteps sound almost as loud as your heartbeat, and your vision blurs and your hands and feet go numb with relief. You wait a few agonizing seconds before you can no longer hear the footsteps, and then you wait a few seconds more, until you realize you’ve been sitting there for ten minutes, and your hands are covered in blood and your pants are soaked.

                You crawl out, slowly at first, like coming out of hibernation. Then you’re scrambling, you need to get out get out get out get out get out because what if he comes back? You don’t see the dead bodies anymore, you don’t hear the moans of the people that were still alive but were waiting for the right moment to call for help. Your legs feel like rubber and you’re running out into the hall and trying not to cry. But you’re sobbing, and there are hot tears flying past you as you fling the doors open to the outside.

                Police sirens are blaring, but you still don’t hear anything except your own inhuman howls. You’re shaking, still covered in blood and holding your hands out in front of you like one of those dramatic movies. There are people touching you, people you’ve never met, would have never met if it weren’t for this awful, awful day that happened across your life. An event that could have happened to anyone, anywhere, an event that HAS happened to people that you never thought you would identify with.

                But it’s over. They’re putting a blanket on you, they’re holding you, they’re telling you that you’re safe now, that the big bad man is gone, that he’s not going to hurt you anymore, but you still remember the dead faces of your friends, and you remember you didn’t help them, you couldn’t help them. It wasn’t your fault, but you still feel the weight of their murders on your shoulders. You got out. They didn’t.