This is short, and I'm not sure if it even makes any sense. It's 3 in the morning and I'll probably delete this tomorrow morning once I wake up and realize how awful it is. Alright, well here is Chapter 1:
(GUNMAN'S POV)
The idea came to me a week ago. An infant flame in the dark abyss of my mind. It was simple, efficient; it would get the job done. Was it rational? Not in the least bit. Would it result in utter destruction? Why yes, it would, but that didn't bother me. This was after all a dying man's plan.
I know I could end this in a different way. Make everyone see it in a different way. Turn the hate into sympathy, coal to gold. But I didn't want that, I didn't want them to feel guilt for themselves. I wanted them to feel guilt for what they had turned me into. Treat me like a monster, I will respond as a monster. Destroy me, and I shall rebound with my own form of destruction. Because when I shoot that gun off in the hallway, it won't be a bullet that will take a life. It will be their words, their taunts and actions. It will be their evil that murders.
On April 19th, I picked up my backpack and went to school. Said goodbye to my parents, made sure I had lunch money in my back pocket, made sure I had the gun tucked underneath my hoodie. I only left one thing behind: myself. I emptied my body of thought, of emotion, of mind, heart, and soul. Because I knew if I carried those heavy burdens with me, I would never be able to pull the trigger. And I needed to pull that trigger; it signified everything. My life and death and whole person revolved around that one small twitch of my finger. That gunshot would define me for the rest of my life.
As I made my way onto school grounds, I was greeted with big plastic smiles worthy of Barbie and Ken. I responded with my own doll face grin. That's all we really were, dolls. Destiny's playthings, fate's toys.
I parked myself on a picnic bench and watched the dolls of Degrassi mull around. They were so oblivious to the horror that would ensue shortly, too wrapped up in their artificial thoughts. None of them realized I no longer saw them as human, but rather walking X-marks-the-spot's. The thought disturbed me, and I clenched my side, my hand wrapping around the barrel of the gun through the fabric of my jacket. No thoughts, no feelings, I demanded of myself. To calm myself I repeated the mantra I'd made up and said to myself for months now: "I am nothing. You are nothing. He, she, is nothing. We are nothing." Over and over again my mind mouthed the words, until my head was abuzz of "nothing".
The school bell rang and kids were flurrying around, a huge swarm of limbs making their way through the doors of Degrassi. I didn't budge. I was going to wait for time to trickle away, like grains of sand through cupped palms. One minute. Two minutes. Three, four, five grains of sand. I stood up and walked into the school. Students were still peppered throughout the hallways. As I walked through the halls, I let the soundtrack of laughter and gossip ring through my ears, the sweet anthem of high school.
As I walked and walked, students began to thin out. This was my opportunity, the moment to write myself into Degrassi's history. I'd be remembered for this, the darkest of deeds that would stain this very hallway.
I felt as if I were moving through water, the way my actions were swift and easy. Pulling the gun out from under my jacket. Raising it into the air like the white flag I never waved. Pressing my index finger down upon the trigger. Hearing the boom that shattered the anthem. Screams that split like peas from a shell into the aftermath. Pushes and shoves as kids scramble away, their synthetic body parts speeding them far from me. Until there is only my toy victim and me.
But then I gape at what I see. There are three of us in the hallway, two people and one corpse.
"No," I whisper, as I watch the blood bloom like liquid rose from my victim. A doll can't bleed.
"What have you done?" he yells at me as he crouches next to my victim. His hand lays splat in the middle of a crimson puddle. I am captivated by his face; the backdrop to my backfire.
This wasn't supposed to happen. My victim was supposed to be random, a 307 in a million. Luck if it had been one of my tormenters, fate if it had been anyone else. But this-not this.
"I'm sorry," I say. He looks up, just in time to see me raise the gun to my head.
His yell is veiled beneath my gunshot.
One person, two corpses.
No more grains of sand in my life.