He had been ignored once again. Like always. He had simply asked for help, for support, for a single kind word. But, he received nothing. Some saw this and pitied him, but did nothing. A few saw this and tormented him, if only to disguise their own cowardice. They probed his weaknesses and strengths and found chinks in the armor of isolation he had assembled for himself. It started simply. A light bump in the hallway, closing a door in his face. Then came the words. Words of harassment, of insults, of curses, and most significantly, of his weaknesses. At first the words merely hurt but over time they continued to chafe him until each time they were spoken it was like an old wound being reopened. He sought help but received none. No help, no support, not a single kind word.


In time they were not contented by mere words and began beating him. Their torture of him increased with intensity every day. He finally received the help he long sought but nothing ever truly helped. Sure they were stopped temporarily. But every time the suspensions ended the beatings continued, and increased in animal ferocity.


In time he ceased asking for the true help he knew would not come. He searched for other forms of help but found none. People suggested conspiracies, philosophies and crutches but he would commit to none. He reached the fatal conclusion that the only person who could solve his problem was himself.


He knew where his father kept the gun. As he placed it in his backpack he felt a new strength and boldness fill him. He smiled, he would have his revenge soon. The bus then arrived to take him to school. He boarded with a smile of satisfaction still clinging to his face.


So they came unaware of the cruel fate that awaited them. They were arrogant in their supposed superiority. They thought they would be able to push him around as they always did. Most importantly, they were wrong.


He pulled the gun out and wrapped it in a cloth (there was no need for anyone to see it before he used it). He saw them approaching him as they did every day but he did not make a move. They probably planned on taking the item in his hand and flinging it against a wall as they did his backpack and books before they beat him. They were close now, one of them reached out a hand.

He knew what the consequences of his actions were and he accepted them as inevitable. He knew people would say they saw this coming but did nothing. Fingers would be pointed, people would call for the prosecution of him and the others whether any of them alive or not. He knew that they would ask him questions, give him drugs he did not need, and maybe even lock him up in a padded room wearing a jacket with twisted sleeves. But, he accepted these things as well. Because now he knew he would not be ignored.


He raised the gun and the cloth fell to the floor. He smiled as an expression of sheer terror spread across their faces. Some stood still deadlocked in fear while others turned and ran like the cowards that he always knew they were. The gun was heavy and awkward but it felt good in his hand as he pulled the trigger. All but one of his tormentors fell to the ground by the time the clip was empty. The last, he felt, did not deserve the others fate. This one was like him, ignored and only remained with the tormentors for his own protection from others that would do worse than they. He heard seemingly distant screams in the hallways not just from the students but also the teachers who could’ve prevented this with help, support, or a single kind word.