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

I feel kind of dirty now. What a nasty prompt. 
 
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 Tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day. Dad does n't think I know where he keeps the handgun. Of course, I do. Probably thinks I'm stupid too. Just like Bobby, Michael and Josh. But I was stupid, of course. Stupid to think that Bobby, dear sweet handsome Bobby, would invite me to a party. Had he known how many times I sketched the back of his head along the margins of my notes instead of paying attention? 
 
 Stupid, stupid. 
 
 I lay out the bullets on the table. I count them twice to make sure. One, two, three, four. 
 
 Bobby. Going to college on a football scholarship. Pride of the town. Could have gone pro. Bobby with his broad shoulders and his easy smile. Bobby with his heavy arm around my shoulder and a plastic cup full of something or another sloshing down the front of my top. A plastic cup, I later found, that was full of twelve hours of sleep. The sharpie squeals as I write his name on a bullet. He was the first to start. So tomorrow I'll start with him. 
 
 Michael was second. Sleazeball. Synchophant. Second fiddle. Not good enough for the first team, not good enough for the starting line up. He went second. Of course he would. His name goes on the second bullet. Tomorrow, he'll be second too. I laugh a little, because I have no tears left to cry, but it sounds somewhere between a croak and a sob. 
 
 Josh. Ah, Josh. The hanger-on. The desperate friend. I suppose I have him to thank. Otherwise, I would have just woken up, sore and bleeding on the sidewalk without a clue. But Josh filmed it, you see. So I know who did it. I and half the school. Funny how half the school did n't have anything to say when the sheriff's office came sniffing around. Sniffing around like castrated, toothless dogs. Not too keen on hanging out some of our school's best to dry. Ruin the future of these golden boys. I have no future. Tomorrow, I take theirs. But I'm still grateful to Josh, you see. So tomorrow, I'm going to let him live a little longer then the other two. He goes last. He always did like to watch. So he can watch. I put his name on the third bullet. 
 
 The sharpie sits on the table. There's one more bullet. There's one more name. I pick up the sharpie again. Did I say there were no tears left? Why are my cheeks wet again. One more name for tomorrow, and then it'll all be done. I sign the last bullet with my own stupid, stupid name. Tomorrow. Tomorrow's the big day.
