Duo walked through the empty hallway. He snapped up the switch. The lights flickered and buzzed, turning on a moment later. He looked down the hall. Instead of the broken pencils, dropped change, and crumpled sheets of geometry homework lying brushed up against the lockers, the tiles were eerily bare. He walked forward. It felt totally sterilized, like an operating room after surgery.
He paused outside a classroom. Yes...221...this was right opposite his english. There had been two bodies here. And one...one right over there, by the stairwell. The student had waited and taken the gun out in the bathroom over there...Duo walked to the locked door and looked back...yes...and stood behind the door till the bell...
He fell back suddenly, heavily, cracking his head into the wall. He was a soldier, of course he had killed, thousands more than this kid had, but then...then people commended him for it. He brought down tyrannies and dictators with only the help of his small squad. If he had answered to a government, they would have called him a patriot, given him the highest of medals and honors. Wait. No they wouldn't. Because they would never believe him. Never believe someone too young to drive could possibly do such horrible things. But he had, he did. Because he could see what was wrong with their 'enemies', their pathetic defense, and he and his squad would laugh when the armies retreated, claiming they were an impenetrable fortress. They would laugh, yes, then go and destroy, and do it so completely governments went on worldwide broadcasts to beg them to unmask themselves.
But the regime would never know or believe.
And if they did, they would think of this, this sort of crime. Not a glorious victory, but a gang triumph. Just a group of children murderers. They would be in court, in jail, in therapy. And then in therapy people would tell them, always in kind sympathetic tones, that children never meant to do these things, and that they should feel guilty, sorry, torn.
Well, he didn't.
And they would nod kindly and smile, scribbling notes, recommending them to intensive. Duo laughed painfully. That's where they were taking that kid from the other class. That kid was probably sitting in a cell right now, wondering, just wondering why the hell she killed the kids. How did that kid get a hold of that gun anyway? Oh well. It didn't matter, they were there, you could get one if you really tried. And then it didn't matter whether you were rich or not or black or not or addicted or not, you end up using it anyway. And then it doesn't matter after that, you all wind up the same...one way or another...
I'm just waiting for my time, Duo realized. Oh, I'll do it my own way, I'll take what's mine...but I'll will be as ashamed as all of them. Time was always cruel, and right now...now it's just giving me enough time and means to sign my own....
"Oh God, God please..." Duo refused to close his eyes, even as before his memory the students jerked and fell bleeding, slumped against the water fountain. If he had never decided to civilian for a cover, he wouldn't have seen this. He'd still be able to kill without ghostly memories. But not now or ever, ever, ever again.
He hadn't been able to do it in the first place. No one ever would. Without guns, without a tool to separate you from your gore, without being able to think to yourself when phantoms threaten you at night, "It wasn't me. The gun did it. Please! Please, let it not be me!"
No.
It was, it is me.
I killed them, it was me, God. Just me.
If you had to kill someone with your own hands you couldn't do it
He paused outside a classroom. Yes...221...this was right opposite his english. There had been two bodies here. And one...one right over there, by the stairwell. The student had waited and taken the gun out in the bathroom over there...Duo walked to the locked door and looked back...yes...and stood behind the door till the bell...
He fell back suddenly, heavily, cracking his head into the wall. He was a soldier, of course he had killed, thousands more than this kid had, but then...then people commended him for it. He brought down tyrannies and dictators with only the help of his small squad. If he had answered to a government, they would have called him a patriot, given him the highest of medals and honors. Wait. No they wouldn't. Because they would never believe him. Never believe someone too young to drive could possibly do such horrible things. But he had, he did. Because he could see what was wrong with their 'enemies', their pathetic defense, and he and his squad would laugh when the armies retreated, claiming they were an impenetrable fortress. They would laugh, yes, then go and destroy, and do it so completely governments went on worldwide broadcasts to beg them to unmask themselves.
But the regime would never know or believe.
And if they did, they would think of this, this sort of crime. Not a glorious victory, but a gang triumph. Just a group of children murderers. They would be in court, in jail, in therapy. And then in therapy people would tell them, always in kind sympathetic tones, that children never meant to do these things, and that they should feel guilty, sorry, torn.
Well, he didn't.
And they would nod kindly and smile, scribbling notes, recommending them to intensive. Duo laughed painfully. That's where they were taking that kid from the other class. That kid was probably sitting in a cell right now, wondering, just wondering why the hell she killed the kids. How did that kid get a hold of that gun anyway? Oh well. It didn't matter, they were there, you could get one if you really tried. And then it didn't matter whether you were rich or not or black or not or addicted or not, you end up using it anyway. And then it doesn't matter after that, you all wind up the same...one way or another...
I'm just waiting for my time, Duo realized. Oh, I'll do it my own way, I'll take what's mine...but I'll will be as ashamed as all of them. Time was always cruel, and right now...now it's just giving me enough time and means to sign my own....
"Oh God, God please..." Duo refused to close his eyes, even as before his memory the students jerked and fell bleeding, slumped against the water fountain. If he had never decided to civilian for a cover, he wouldn't have seen this. He'd still be able to kill without ghostly memories. But not now or ever, ever, ever again.
He hadn't been able to do it in the first place. No one ever would. Without guns, without a tool to separate you from your gore, without being able to think to yourself when phantoms threaten you at night, "It wasn't me. The gun did it. Please! Please, let it not be me!"
No.
It was, it is me.
I killed them, it was me, God. Just me.
If you had to kill someone with your own hands you couldn't do it