It was said that Molly McCollum - small, bespectacled, mousy-haired and eternally cheerful Molly McCollum - smiled as she did it, shot ten classmates to death with a grin on her small face.

And then, afterwards, she had vanished, a small wraith of a girl disappeared into municipal darkness.

After four weeks of fruitless searching, the embarrassed police pronounced Molly McCollum disappeared. Dead or missing.

Only –

Here is Molly, clothes raggle-taggle and torn, the M16 that had so puzzled the police slung over one thin shoulder. Glasses askew, orange sunlight reflecting off broken lens. Smiling. Not dead, only missing.

Here is Molly - eternally young, perpetually polite - as she gazes through the scope, waits patiently until victim is directly aligned with the crosshairs.

Here is Molly as she fires twelve shots as the stars turn on a dark, deserted street.

Here is Molly, as she walks over, drops a small piece of paper next to the limp body.

Here is Molly as she smile quietly to herself, soft and sweet.

And here is Molly again.

Again the machine guns; again the glasses; again it, that smile as branding as a burst of gunpowder.

Here is Molly as she raises her rifle, scopes her target, prepares to fire:

And here is Molly as she pauses, small mouth opens in one surprised "oh."

Fifteen guns are pointed at her.

And even then she does not stop, does not lose her smile or the cheer in her voice long after her glasses have been reduced to broken glass that grounds into fair skin and blood runs down porcelain cheeks. She smiles, smiles through the interrogation and the handcuffs and the spit that runs, with the blood, onto the floor.

When they realize that they will get nothing out of this girl, they put her in isolation.

Here is Mary McCollum as she is pushed into the cell. Here is Mary McCollum as she slowly stands up, gazes at the bright walls around her.

And here is Mary McCollum as she very calmly sinks two teeth into her finger until she breaks skin. Very calmly, she does the same to her other fingers, and with bloody hands finger paints a message on the wall.

Here is Mary McCollum as she examines her fingernail painted red by blood, idly, like any teenaged girl would.

Here is Mary McCollum as she smiles, smiles and forces two red fingers into lens and cornea.

Here is Mary McCollum, the blood running down her cheeks like scarlet tears, as she crashes her head down onto the blinding white floor.

Here is Mary McCollum as she smiles, smiles as her eyes slowly close.

You are blind, all of you. You are vindictive yet cowardly. Unlikely that by now you have even begun to see the error of your actions, the horror of your acts. Righteousness in this world is a fabrication, and you are fool for believing it. Justice is a sham, and you are frauds. Only he is pure, only he is true.

M. M.