'Why can't we be normal?'
'This is normal.'
He decides to start in the music room.
But, it's not exactly the start, is it?
Nor was it the start when he decided to bring the gun into the school. Nor when he makes the decision to buy the weapon in the first place. Does it start when he becomes the target to bullies? Is that when he subconsciously begins planning to turn them into the targets, the victims? Does he want it for the power-to be in control, to stop it? Or does he want it so he can uproot those lives who have ruined his?
Which, in this place, is all.
No one is an innocent in this.
Those who turned a blind eye will argue. They will be so heavy in denial that they even believe their own words when they speak of having no part. That they did nothing to him.
They won't even know that is his point.
They did nothing.
He wants them to feel a guilt that makes a home in someone. That finds it's way through every crook and cranny, and leaves no space for anything else. That every action they make, and every word they say will at least have the ghost of it in them.
He decides to start in the music room, because he thinks that although the gunshot will crack through the air like a whip, will blast silence apart in a way that it will never be whole again in that place, it will not be as loud as it could be. And this will give him time to make his way through, to give everyone a chance to work up a good amount of fear.
It's his turn to play.
And what better game to play, to make all those that made him hate his life and wish he were dead every day, fear for their own life? It is a twisted, twisted irony, and it only makes him smile.
He takes a breath, and he moves his hands to his pocket, and his fingers curl around the silver gun.
Who will he shoot first? Sarah, the pretty brown eyed girl? She's too busy blowing breath into her saxophone, trying to bring it to life. How many times had she rejected him, had laughed cruelly as fists and words were thrown at him? He could remove the instrument and put the gun in her mouth instead. Tell her to blow, watch her eyes fill with tears, her mouth quiver as she stares up at him pleadingly. He could put something else in her mouth, tell her to perform like the slut she was. He could, but he does neither of those things.
He thinks he'll start with the teacher. Take authority out and besides, Mr. Towers has always turned his back. Well, what better way to stick a knife in?
Or, in his case, a bullet.
The song builds in it's climax, and he knows it's time. He pulls out his gun, presses on the trigger and smiles as the music is shattered by the bullet and screams.