A Hero's Death

  Muffled gunshots could be heard from beyond the janitor closet door. Someone was out there, angry, for whatever reason, to the point of homicide. And there I was, hiding in the janitor's closet. Alone and scared beyond reason. How could I just sit here in fear, knowing that somebody was out there hurting so many innocent people? It was simply unacceptable. I stood and peeked through the little window on the door. There he was, back turned to me, pointing his gun at some poor kid who hadn't gotten away in time. I couldn't just let him kill the poor boy. I would never have been able to live with the guilt of doing nothing to stop him. 

  I silently opened the door, making sure not to attract the shooter's attention, grabbed a heavy looking pipe. It wasn't much against a gun but it would have to do. The boy on the floor was begging for his life as I finally began sneaking towards the shooter. As I finally got close enough to swing my crude weapon at the shooter's head, the boy on the floor saw me and cried more forcefully. The shooter whipped around and took a step back as he fired his gun at me. The burning pain that erupted from below my right shoulder was excruciating, but luck was at my side. The pipe had struck the man's shooting hand with enough force to knock the gun to the floor.  

  Blinded by the pain in my side, the pipe fell from my hands as I knelt on the ground. The shooter stood some feet away from me, staring, the gun lying between us. Without hesitation I picked it up and stared at the one who had used it to kill innocent people. He looked at me with challenging eyes and I knew in my heart that I could never pull the trigger myself. I stood up, feeling the blood on my chest and my ragged breathing, and threw the gun behind me. The shooter smirked and ran toward it, but I had anticipated it and jumped onto him. We fell awkwardly and I felt his leg break. He shuffled his way to the gun even with my added weight and his broken leg and I knew with my shortening breaths and lightheadedness that he was going to reach it. Whether he reached it or not made no difference, I was going to die. I did the only thing I could do to ensure the safety of anyone still in the vicinity. I reached for his right arm and broke it at the elbow with the last of my strength. I felt myself fading, my surroundings turning black, and I knew I had done what I could to save others from this wretched man. He would pay for his actions, and that made my death meaningful. In the end, I died a hero's death, and that was more than I could ever ask for.