Sunday, January 27, 2008

Killer Killer (Part 2)

WARNING: The following story is in no way a threat, or something based off of any plans of the author. It was written for two reasons, to display his writing skills, and to make people think. Don’t call your campus police department and ask them to search my apartment- again- because it’ll just waste my time, as well as theirs- which is precious. Read on at your own risk.
Reader discretion advised.
Enjoy.



Shrieks escaped everybody’s mouths. People moved in closer to their hiding places as if it would make a difference. I knew it wouldn’t, but I did it too.
“You mother fuckers scared, huh?”
I didn’t have to look to recognize the voice.
It was the crazy guy from outside.
I suddenly felt bad.
I could have stopped this. I could have called the police to get him escorted off of the campus, or something! Now he was in the school killing people. It was my fault.
“So you bitches think you can walk around with your nice clothes and nice cars and get an education and rise up, and just leave me in the hood, huh?”
I heard him walking around slowly. I refused to look.
“You think you’re better than me?” The footsteps stopped.
I remained behind the couch.
Silence.
“I asked you a mother fucking question!”
Boom!
A gunshot went off that caused me to jump, and made other people shift.
“Why the fuck can’t I be the first black mother fucking president?” He continued. “Hmm? Why not?”
He was asking questions before he killed people.
Columbine.
I heard him laugh- his signature hoot from hell.
He thought it was funny. He felt he was playing a game. He felt that life was a big video game, and taking people’s lives was no big deal- to bring them back, you just had to press restart.
“If you think your life is that freaking cruddy, why don’t you just take your own life instead of taking innocent people’s?” Some girl shrieked. “You’re a coward! Kill yourself! Leave us alone!”
I heard him walk over to the voice, and I heard shuffling. The noises of somebody trying to escape death.
Boom! Boom!
Her last words.
Tears poured down the faces of the people behind the couch.
I was terrified.
I was holding my breath.
My heart was racing, and my mind was going a hundred miles a minute. I was in a state of denial- I guess to keep me from entering a state of shock. My life was about to end, and I didn’t want to grasp that.
“Anybody else want to be a hero?” The crazed man asked. “Anybody else want to shout their last fucking words to the world? This aint’ no damn T.V, nigga! I will kill you! I don’t give a fuck!”
More shots went off as I held on to the couch as if it were my only source of life.
All of a sudden, I realized I could end this.
After the Virginia Tech tragedy, my father, who was a member of the NRA, decided that it was time for me to start carrying protection. I was against it, but he explained that living in the world we live in now, where people just kill because they can, I needed protection. He said he couldn’t live to see me die, after my mother was killed by a gunman downtown- around the same place my school was located. He wouldn’t allow it, and he pressed me to get a gun.
Wanting to make my father happy, especially after understanding what he went though- what I went though, I went with him to the gun range to practice shooting. For my twenty-first birthday, he got me a gun- as well as a license to carry it. It wasn’t anything big, just a .22 Magnum mini revolver that could fit in my pocket. I kept it in my backpack, and never told anybody about it, or showed it off. It was loaded, but I never shot it- it remained in the holster it came with since I got it.
In no way, form, or fashion was I a thug who wanted to shoot somebody in my life. But I understood I had dreams, and if somebody wanted to take them away from me…
Did this happen for a reason?
Was I supposed to kill the killer?
I had never killed anyone, and wasn’t planning on it anytime soon- if ever.
But I needed to protect myself- as well as everybody else.
He couldn’t kill anymore.
More gunshots discontinued my thoughts abruptly.
I decided.
I slowly pulled my bag towards me, and slipped open the small compartment in the front. The people sitting around me looked at me in terror.
I put my finger to my lips, and looked at them.
My eyes pleaded with them, begged them not to make any noise.
I reached inside and pulled the small gun out, it feeling cold in my hands.
As cold as death.
I pulled it out of the holster.
I looked into the eyes of the people surrounding me. Their eyes were filled with fright, sorrow, and question- was he with the guy who was killing everybody?
Was he going to kill us too?
My eyes told them negative.
I heard the murderer talking, but his words sounded muffled in my ears.
I struggled to remember how to use the gun. My mind was full of mist, my stomach full of butterflies.
I looked at the gun.
The steel finish, the letters and numbers on the side- I felt the weight. It wasn’t heavy- but its weight proved that it was loaded. Murder was in my hands. Death was in my control- he was just waiting for my instructions.
I wasn’t going to die tonight.
“If you scared, go to church mother fucker! I don’t give a fuck!”
More shots.
Crying, moaning, blood.
He was getting closer.
Death was getting closer.
The surrounding eyes peered at me, begged me to end this terror.
I cocked the hammer back.
I was going to be a killing hero.
A killer killer.
I rose up slowly, and looked over the top of the couch, gun in hand, hammer cocked, the gun’s babies ready to be born.
The sight was vile.
Blood was everywhere, bodies were lying on the ground, people were moaning, crying, and the stench of urine wafted around the room. Fatality reigned.
His back was facing me, and he was staring at two girls in the corner. They were covering their faces and crying, pleading with him for life.
Two women.
Two helpless women- who did nothing to him- who have probably never seen him in their lives.
He held a pistol in each hand- each hand spoke death.
He was heartless.
He yelled at them.
He was crazy.
I had the power to end this.
My hands were shaking, due to the adrenaline. It was now or never.
I raised all the way up, aimed the gun at the back of his head an pulled the trigger.
Crack!
I didn’t know if I missed, but his body shifted.
I cocked the hammer back again and shot, walking towards him.
Crack!
A bullet entered his neck, and blood poured out from his wound.
He was hit.
He turned towards me, and his face held confusion.
“Fuck.”
By the time he said that, I had already shot him a third time, the bullet entering his forehead, his brains splattering on the girls behind him. They screamed.
Without another ignorant word, he fell to the ground hard, guns hitting the ground harder- loud enough to wake everybody up from their nightmare.
I stood there and absorbed the scene; the dead bodies, the almost dead- gasping for air, holding on to life, the terrified who would have been dead, the murderer dead on the ground- helpless now, the smoking revolver in my hand, the smell of gun powder…
I couldn’t take it all in.
The gun dropped from my hands.
People started to get up and help each other, ask what was going on, confusion lined their faces.
As I stared at nothing and everything, my sight started to fade. Before everything went dark, I witnessed the police officers step inside the Internet Café, guns drawn.
About time.

* * *

I woke up from my dream in a cold sweat once again. The dream was as vivid as when it happened in real life.
I sat up, and looked at the darkness around me.
When would I dream other things? When would my happy dreams begin again?
When would this damn stone cot become a Therapeudic mattress?
When would I get out of jail?
Why were the laws like they were?
If I didn’t have a gun on me, how many people would have been killed before the police came?
How many more people?
Would I be alive?
When will I be seen as a hero, and not a killer?
Why am I in jail?
Whys, woulds, what ifs and whens, along with hows flooded my mind. Hundreds of questions with no answers present.
I couldn’t let my dreams haunt me.
I couldn’t let reality haunt me.
I had to get out of here.
I needed to see sunlight.
I wasn’t a killer.
I killed a killer.


Copyright © 2007 by Lucius McCall
All rights reserved.


Should firearms be allowed on school campuses?

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