Combat boots clank through the hallways. Lockers pop and posters fly from the walls, both damaged with warning shots. Everyone inches in tighter, leaving no room for breath. Only slight comfort that might possibly be our last. The person keeps getting closer, walking toward the end of the hallway that we are on.
Then I hear it. It was silent at first, now it is loud enough to make my stomach churn violently. Someone is whistling. It's a cheery tune, almost. Cheery enough to scare the life out of anyone who hears it today. It almost sounds familiar, but I'm too scared to figure out where I've heard it. Students in my class have started locking hands, and whimpers from girls can be faintly heard. One girl was desperately trying to hold back her sobs, but fails. One loud gasp escapes her mouth and the boots outside the door come to a stop. The whistling is gone. We have been found.
Moments pass, but they feel like hours. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe the person left. Someone reaches for my hand, but I jerk away. We all sit there in confusion and terror, staring at each other waiting for a sign. Soon enough, we get the sign.
Bullets pierce the door, leaving three holes of light to shine through the classroom. More gasps escape, and crying becomes louder and helpless. The door is suddenly being nudged against, bending under the pressure of the person behind it and eventually busting open in a swift fashion. And there he is.
The tall figure of my nightmares. The last person I will ever see. The last person I will ever hate. In the light of the hallway, his face is completely shadowed, and I can only see his figure towering over us. No one is trying to stop him. No brave person is playing hero today. He pulls his gun up, cocking it and pointing it at our instructor. Boom. Her slim frame falls to the floor into an awkward pile of blood and flesh. Everyone begins to sink into the floor; laying on each other hoping to get one embrace in before they are shot in the head. I, being completely in shock, join them.
The figure cocks the gun again and aims at a student. Another. Another. That student was a baseball player. That girl was a mathlete. That other girl could have cured cancer, but now she has no chance of anything. Then, in a swift movement, I am faced by the figure, and I am suddenly staring down the barrel of a shotgun. He lowers it to my chest, saving me a quick and painless death and going for a slow and agonizing one. A slip of the trigger and I begin to feel warm all over. I fall into the floor, and the figure continues his reign. I grasp my chest, but there is no wound where it should be. My arm is numb, though, and blood is seeping through the sleeve of my favorite sweater. I will not die today.