[ WP ] Write a story of a school shooting that makes us sympathetic with the shooter .

Cathartic. That ’ s the word I ’ d use to describe the roar of the gun and the crack of the bullet into the old brick wall. It was all so loud, but it seemed so far away, distant, like a carnival on the opposite side of the bay where the sounds drift across the water blended into a single symphony. 
 
 For years, I shuffled through the halls of Cedar Oak Middle School with my books clutched to my chest, and my hair falling over my face. I laughed with my friends and avoided the jocks and felt my blood run cold every time I passed the door to Room 106. 
 
 Today was another fond memory at Cedar Oaks. For the first time, my blood pumped hot through my veins, and the smile on my face was genuine as I left, shells clinking together merrily in my pockets. I had to collect the shell so they couldn ’ t prove it was me. 
 
 I wouldn ’ t mind so much the world knowing, even if they called me a monster. But, my mom, I don ’ t think she could take it. I ’ d rather die than let her face the pain. It ’ s for her as well as myself that I had to remove those monsters disguised as men. 
 
 I still remember my Dad, but the memories are cloudy now. It ’ s been so long I ’ m not sure if the curve of his smile is etched in my mind from memories of us together or memories of staring at his photos in the hall. Mom waited years pining away for him until Randy Johnson swept her off her feet. He was romantic and respectable, a science teacher at a local middle school. 
 “ He ’ ll be good for you and your brother, ” Mom said. 
 
 He was, maybe, for a while. But then it started. He left Tony alone, but me… he was friendly, too friendly. Mom knew, and she kicked him out, but the confrontation cost her dearly. Sometimes late at night I can still hear her sobbing in her room, trying to be quiet, thinking we don ’ t know. But I know, and I knew. 
 
 But for years, I was scared to pass by that room. Room 106 with his name plastered across the doorway, his sneering, leering face on the other side of the cheap wood door, hiding behind that veil of respectability. 
 
 It ’ s because of him I became a tutor, helping out kids at Cedar Oaks who were troubled but no one quite knew why. Some of them would talk to me. They knew, they sensed that I had something in common. Like Jane. 
 
 I jumped at the chance to tutor her the minute her name came up on the list. Jane Johnson, the step-daughter of the well respected man I hated with every piece of my soul. She had suddenly started acting out, withdrawing, having trouble focusing in school. 
 
 It took six months for her to open up to me. Her story was even worse than mine. Johnson had grown bored with classic rape. His friends had grown bored with their day to day respectable lives with their wives and their children and their respectable careers. 
 
 The day she told me, I knew what I had to do. 
 
 I wore gloves, a plain, black hoodie. I wore platform shoes and too-long jeans to try and disguise my height. I waited until afterschool, using Jane as bait. 
 Johnson knew me the moment I entered his room and started to move toward me. I pointed the gun and fired, hitting him in the stomach, hoping he would have to bleed out in the most painful way possible. A pain no where near as long or as deep or as terrible as what he ’ d done to me or my Mom or Jane, but a start. 
 The others were fast. I didn ’ t know them, none of them., but they fell quickly, begging, screaming crying, some even trying to run. All six, downed in a matter of minutes until it was just me and Jane and Johnson moaning in the corner. 
 She wiped the tears from her face and asked for the gun. 
 
 She shot Johnson six times on his body while I gathered up the bullets and shells I ’ d fired at the others, kicking them each in the groin for good measure, making sure they were dead and numb and incapable of spreading their pain. Johnson was still pleading, blood dripping from his lecherous lips while it poured from the rest of his body. 
 
 Jane looked up at the security camera, its light blinking a pale orange. 
 
 “ You have to shoot me, too. ” 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 “ No, I don ’ t. No one is going to blame you. ” 
 
 “ They ’ ll torture me to get to you. ” 
 
 “ No, they won ’ t. ” 
 
 “ They will, Casey. There ’ s nothing you can do to stop it. ” She whispered my name, making sure it wouldn ’ t be recorded. Then, she gave me a sad smile, the one that ripped open a final stitch in my ragged heart. 
 
 “ Besides, I won ’ t make it much longer anyway. He knew something was up. He wasn ’ t going to let me leave her alive. “ 
 
 She gestured, and I noticed the large amount of blood staining the blue of her jeans a horrifying purple while her face faded gray. 
 “ No. ” 
 
 She handed me back the gun. 
 
 “ Just make it quick. ” 
 
 I held up the gun, wiping tears from my face. 
 
 “ Oh, and Casey? ” 
 
 “ Yes, Jane. ” 
 
 “ Thank you. ” 
 
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