To you, it's just a story you hear on the news. A tragedy where tons of people died when a psychopath got pushed just a little bit too far and decided shooting a bunch of innocent people was the answer.
You probably watch all the reports on TV, and then, along with America, you obsess over how something so terrible could have happened. How anybody could be such a monster.
And after the tragedy's fifteen minutes of fame are up, you'll forget about it. Everybody does eventually.
But for those of us who were there when the psychopath snapped, it wasn't just a tragedy; it was a living hell. And we won't ever forget.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how it started. Let me show you what it was like- how it FELT to be apart of that tragedy.
You won't ever be the same. We sure as hell weren't. Well, those of us who actually survived weren't. Because we never saw it coming.
I guess the people who experience these kinds of tragedies never really see it coming, but it hits especially close to home when it's one of your own, not just some random stranger.
And Mr. Anderson WAS one of our own. He'd walked in on couples making out in the supply closet (his office) hundreds of times, found drugs in kids lockers, and caught girls puking their guts up in the bathroom after finding out they were late.
He never said anything though. Never breathed a word of what he saw to anybody. He was one of the good guys. Or so we thought.
Imagine our surprise when he shot and killed close to three dozen people.
We never even saw it coming.
YOU ARE READING
Helpless
General FictionSometimes, we have no control over what happens in our life; who gets to live, and who has to die. Sometimes all we have is hope. Hope for the future, hope for happiness, hope for forgiveness. But sometimes we don't. Sometimes, there is nothing but...