SOUTH PARK DOES NOT BELONG TO ME, CREDIT GOES TO TREY PARKER AND MATT STONE
Another day, another shooting—except for the few usual unlucky students, for whom this shooting would be their last.
The first shots were heard at the computer lab around 10. After that, the children who got to escape and those who witnessed the massacre from outside of the classroom alerted the rest of the school. The alarms went off, Mackey bursted out of his office screaming for the children to stay calm and collected not very calmly himself and follow him, while PC Principal dialed the police's number for the...well, he had lost count of how many times he had had to call them ever since he started working at public schools. It took many by surprise but these were so frequent they had knowledge of what to do. And one of those things was being quick to disappear from sight.
Unfortunately, Timmy Burch asked for permission to go to the restroom and left it at the worst moment possible.
His hands were still wet when he pushed the door open with his wheelchair. His mind was drifting, trying to figure out what class was next while many other things crossed his mind, like a song stuck in his mind, a funny video Jimmy had showed him the day before, and the fantasies about being a superhero who crossed the hallways with his cape and all. All those thoughts were fighting to get his full attention at the same time, to the point no thought at all could drive him into a specific direction and consequently his attention on the surroundings was very poor.
His fantasies, plans and dreams were broken in the blink of an eye when he opened the door of the boy's restroom. They were at the hallway, preying. They didn't miss the chance to get this distracted, crippled victim. They didn't miss.
One bullet was enough.
The door shook, hit by the red splatter.
Everybody around thought the boy reclined dead the same moment the bullet went through his big head, a target one just couldn't miss. That was why the witnesses left him there and ran for their own lives. After all, only very good friends who cared about each other an awful lot had the guts to ignore the instinct of self-preservation, stop, turn around and give a hand, and Timmy's were in Special Ed, blocking the door with the tables, furniture and everything they could find. That was also the reason why they were not quick to check on him. He didn't move like the other wounded children, he didn't open his mouth to let out a howl of pain or sobbed in terror. To everybody passing by his side, Timmy was another corpse to add to the list.
It wasn't until the school was evacuated and the dead children were put into body bags when the SWAT agent stopped in front of the wheelchair, thinking he had just seen his chest move but still..., crouched in front of him, removed his own glove and placed his fingers on the handicapped child's neck.
"Hey! HEY! He's still alive! Somebody come here, this one is alive!"
The medic ran towards the little disabled boy, checked his pulse.
"Jesus Christ, he's breathing!"
"Come on, come on, quick! We might still be on time!"
Timmy didn't notice, deep into the darkness and silence, all those hands on him, placing him very carefully on a stretcher; all those people so astonished to see air struggling in and out of his lungs when part of his brains was scattered around, urging the press and the witnesses to move out of the way to take him to the nearest ambulance; all of his schoolmates, hugging by their mothers tight outside, watching him go and, in spite of the shock and sadness of seeing a friend with a foot in the grave, thanking God it was not them.