Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.

Note: Thanks again for the feedback. I'm glad you're enjoying the letters-to-Artie format. Unfortunately, this chapter won't be as long, seeing as how Will is a good fifteen, twenty years older than the rest of the characters, so there's not as much of his life to talk about. Still, I felt as if he should be included.

Chapter Seven—Will Schuester

Dear Artie,

Hi. It's been four years since the McKinley school shooting. Wow. I feel so horrible, though. There I was, flirting with Emma in her office, when the shots began. I should've apprehended him beforehand. I should've been there for you guys, to comfort you and make sure all of you got out alive. Instead, I was so focused on Emma. God, what kind of educator was I? I can't step inside a school again. I failed as a mentor, as a protector.

He couldn't help it, really. She just looked so adorable that day, the way she was pre-cleaning her grapes for lunch with her little rubber gloves. He was proud of her; she'd been taking her medication and wasn't cleaning quite as much as she used to. And she'd been happier ever since he proposed, humming to herself as she neatened her pamphlets and cleaned her desk. There he was, chatting with her, flirting outrageously.
"I can't wait for our wedding," he said.

"Me neither," she sighed contentedly.

"I can't wait for the wedding night even more," he stroked her arm.

Her eyes widened. "I…I'm not…I mean, I am, but I'm…nervous."

"I won't hurt you, I promise. I could never hurt you, Emma."

She pumped some hand sanitizer on her hands. "I know you won't."

"Em, I thought you were taking your medication."

"I am, I am. See, I only need ten squirts of Purell to feel clean. Before, I needed twenty. So I'd say that's an improvement."

He sighed, but chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

Bang, bang.

"What was that?!" Emma shrieked.

"I don't know," Will peered outside her office window. His face paled. "Oh shit. Emma, we've gotta get out of here. Someone's got a gun!"

"Oh my God," she muttered. She let Will lead her out of her office and down the hall, where he brought her outside and into the far parking lot. He told her he wasn't going to leave her. He didn't want to chance that. The police would take care of this. This wasn't like Columbine, when people were ignorant. They had special security backup, they had plans, lockdown plans and safety plans. And besides, if anyone was vomiting or bleeding, it would majorly set off Emma's OCD, and he didn't want to spend hours in the emergency room while she took decontamination shower after decontamination shower. He spotted the Glee kids over on the other side of the lot, huddled around a tree.

And they were all crying, every single one of them.

"Em, come on, let's go see what's up. Something's gotta be wrong if Sam's crying." She hurriedly followed him to the group of sobbing teenagers."Guys, what's wrong?" They all looked at each other, tears streaming down their faces. Even Santana was weepy and unstable, and Mike couldn't look him in the eye. His stomach sank. "Hey, where's Artie? Did he get hurt, did he get taken away in one of the ambulances?"

"Yes, he got hurt. And yes, he was taken away…because he's dead," Rory mumbled.

Will felt as if he'd been punched hard in the stomach. "What?"

"A…Artie's d…d…dead," Rachel bawled. "Oh my God, Mr. Schue, he's d…dead!" She bent over in a torrent of tears, Finn attempting in vain to console her.

No, this couldn't be right. Surely, they had it wrong. But the looks on their faces and the tears in their eyes told him that they weren't lying or over-exaggerating.

He'd failed as a teacher.

He'd failed as a protector for these kids when they were on school property.

He should've sent Emma ahead to safety, stayed behind and tried to help, to save them.

One of his students was dead, and he could've stopped it.

God, what kind of teacher was he?

After Nationals, he sent in his resignation to Figgins. He couldn't bear to be in that choir room any longer, not without noting the empty space between chairs where Artie's chair had always been parked. When he watched them perform from the audience, there was always something off about the dynamic onstage. Something was missing, and it was a young boy in a wheelchair giving it his all. He just couldn't do it anymore. He'd lost too many members due to graduation anyway to keep the Glee Club up and running, and since Rory had to go back to Ireland after his visa was denied, he only had Sam, Tina, Blaine, Sugar, Joe, and Brittany to work off of. He didn't want to wrangle up six new members. It wasn't worth it.

So he once again applied to be an accountant. It wasn't ideal, but it got him away from the schools.

But whenever he smelled Purell—what Emma had been using moments before the attack on the school—he thought of Artie. His anxiety attacks weren't as bad as the kids—they were still young and their minds much more pliable and vulnerable, and they had stayed in the school during the entire ordeal—but he did cry. It got to the point where he asked Emma to switch brands of hand sanitizer, or else use it when he wasn't around. It wasn't so much the bottle itself that would set off the tears, but rather, the smell.

"You know I can't get on without my Purell," she said.

"I know, Emma, and I understand that. But it just…it reminds me of him."

She sat down across from him. "Of Artie, you mean?" He bowed his head, rubbing his temple. "It wasn't your fault, you know. It was a big school. You didn't know where any of those kids were at the time, and even if you did, it would've been a big heroic feat to save all of them."

"I just feel so responsible. If—if I had just paid attention, I could've stopped the whole thing from happening in the first place." He sighed. "Look, you know the symptoms of PTSD. Every single one of those kids suffers from it now, e…especially Tina and Mike. I just didn't think that I would suffer from it, too. It…it's not as bad as the kids, but I can't smell that sanitizer without crying, Em. Please just…use it when I'm not here, okay? Or…or use soap. Use it in your office, use it when I'm at work, just…please."

"Okay," she murmured. "But Will? Eventually you have to stop blaming yourself."

But he never really did stop blaming himself. If he hadn't been acting like one of those lovesick teenagers, Artie might've lived, those other kids would've have gotten injured. He'd been ignorant and negligent, and someone died because of it.

And for what reason, really?

He never did set foot in the choir room again, no matter how much he wanted to.

It used to be his home, and they used to be his family.

But not anymore.

Never stop singing, Artie, and find it in your heart to forgive me.

All the best,

Mr. Schue