Bullying

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A young, innocuous boy

Bullied from day one, saw no way out

Of the severe pain and cruel traps he was always getting caught in.

He found his escape,

Metal, black, and fatal

And with it, he marched into his school.

Nineteen minutes later, the ominous cloud still hung low.

Hysterical and fearful, we survivors refused to leave our hiding places

Under desks and math homework that would never be finished.

Mangled bodies were thrown around,

Just like the forgotten clothes on their bedroom floors.

The pools of crimson blood stood still,

Among the cold, contorted, corpses.

Chairs fallen on their side;

Abandoned backpacks littered the floor.

The hallways that witnessed stampedes of panicked, wailing students

Were now empty deserts,

Desolate, with no signs of life.

 

Hours later,

The cracks and pops of his gun still rang in our heads,

Perfectly.

But little did we know,

Slowly, the faces of those unfortunate few were already

Slipping our memories.

Quickly, the face of the boy,

Permanently staining our minds.

We ask, Is the boy the monster?

Or is he the victim?

Murders are usually crystal-clear,

But this, perplexing.

Were the ones whose lives taken away even innocent at all?

Or did they contribute just as much to this tragedy?

The real monsters, villains, and foes are rewarded

Seen as brave and heroic

The real victim will spend the rest of his life

Locked away

For an act that they started.

 

 

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