Through Their Eyes

Author's Note

"Through Their Eyes" is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and school depicted are not real.

Warning: This story contains explicit and graphic material that explores the intense trauma of a school shooting. It includes detailed descriptions of gun violence, death (including the death of minors), strong language, and themes of PTSD, grief, and survivor's guilt. This content will be disturbing for many readers. Please proceed with caution.

The day at Indigo Run Middle School in Chantilly, Virginia started like any other, with the hum of middle school chaos filling the hallways. Students moved in small packs, their voices bouncing off the cinderblock walls, a chorus of laughter, groans, and inside jokes. By the vending machines near the cafeteria, a group of seventh-grade boys lingered, jostling each other while waiting their turn.

“Come on, Ryan, you’re taking forever!” Alex groaned, leaning his shoulder against the wall. “It’s just a bag of Doritos. They’re not gonna change your life.”

Ryan shot him a glare as he smacked the side of the machine. “Dude, I’m not leaving without these spicy chili Doritos. I saw them drop, and now they’re stuck.”

Another boy snorted, crossing his arms. “You’re seriously this fucking worked up over Doritos?”

Ryan pointed at the machine, indignant. “You don’t understand. This is destiny. I saw them drop!”

Nearby, a group of eighth-grade girls stood clustered around a poster for the upcoming school dance. “Are you seriously going with Jake?” Haley asked, her face scrunched in disbelief.

Brooke rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know if he’s asking me, okay? Like, chill.”

Haley smirked. “He’s totally asking you. He was all weird during lunch yesterday, like he forgot how to talk.”

Down the hall, Mr. Harrison leaned against the doorframe of his classroom, sipping coffee out of a travel mug emblazoned with the words Mathletes Do It By the Numbers. “Morning, scholars!” he called to the students trickling in. “If you’re late to my class, you’re doing double the homework tonight.”

“Yeah, right,” a boy muttered under his breath as he slipped past him. Mr. Harrison grinned, shaking his head as he turned to glance at the clock.

In the art room, Mrs. Potter adjusted the edges of a student’s painting on the bulletin board, stepping back with her hands on her hips. “Hmm. Still crooked,” she murmured, before tilting the canvas just a hair to the right. Behind her, the students were unpacking their supplies, pencils clattering onto desks and brushes clinking against jars of water.

The cafeteria was loud, a jumble of voices and laughter mixed with the clatter of trays and the scrape of chairs against the floor. At one table, a boy swiped at his phone, showing a clip to his friends. “See? That’s the build. No one’s beating this in the next update.”

Another boy shook his head. “Your build sucks, man. You’re going to get wiped in, like, two moves.”

And then it came.

The first crack of gunfire. Distant. Quick. Students paused mid-sentence, glancing at one another. Someone laughed nervously. “What the fuck was that? A locker?”

The second shot rang louder, sharper, and the laughter died instantly. In the cafeteria, the buzz of conversation drained out like water down a sink, replaced by a suffocating silence. The vending machine boys froze, Ryan’s hand still resting on the glass as he whispered, “Was that… was that a fucking gun?”

Alex’s face paled. “No way,” he whispered, his voice shaking.

No one answered. The third shot came almost immediately, so loud and so sharp it seemed to split the air in two. The sound ricocheted down the hallways and through the floors like a ripple of terror.

“Holy shit,” Ryan whispered, his voice cracking. “That’s a gun. That’s a fucking gun.”

The cafeteria exploded into chaos. Chairs toppled as students dove under tables, trays clattering to the ground. Someone screamed—a piercing, guttural sound that sent shivers through everyone who heard it. A girl by the windows dropped to her knees, her hands over her head. “Oh my God, oh my God!” she shrieked, her voice rising higher with every word. “This isn’t happening!”

“GET DOWN!” a teacher yelled, their voice cracking with desperation. “GET UNDER THE TABLES!”

The hallways erupted like a firestorm. Lockers were left hanging open, backpacks and books spilling onto the floor as students sprinted in every direction. A boy bolted past an open classroom door, his sneakers squeaking against the tile. “He’s got a gun! He’s got a fucking gun!” he screamed, his voice ragged with terror.

A girl froze mid-step, her notebook slipping from her hands. Papers scattered across the floor as her breath hitched. “What do I do?” she whimpered, tears spilling down her cheeks. “What do I do?” She turned in circles, looking for someone—anyone—before bolting toward the nearest classroom.

Inside one room, a teacher slammed the door shut, their hands trembling as they locked it. “Barricade it!” they barked, their voice sharp. “Move the desks! Now!” Students stumbled over one another, dragging chairs and desks against the door with shaking hands. A boy crouched by the window, his knees pulled to his chest. “Oh my God, oh my God,” he whispered, rocking back and forth. “We’re gonna die. We’re gonna fucking die.”

In the cafeteria, Ryan and Alex dove behind the vending machine, pressing themselves flat against the floor. Ryan’s breathing came in short, panicked gasps. “What’s happening?” he hissed, his voice breaking.

Alex shook his head, his eyes wide and glassy. “I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

Another gunshot tore through the air, closer this time, louder. The heavy sound of boots pounding down the hallway sent another wave of panic through the school. In the art room, Mrs. Potter grabbed the handle of the door with trembling hands. “Under the tables!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “Everyone under the tables, now!”

Students scrambled, chairs screeching against the floor as they dove for cover. A boy clutched his sketchbook to his chest, his body shaking violently. “This isn’t real,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”

And then, silence. Deafening, suffocating silence, broken only by the sound of unsteady breathing and muffled sobs. Somewhere, another gunshot rang out, closer than before. The air in the school felt heavy, thick with fear and the weight of the unimaginable.

Rocky Run Middle School, a place of laughter and life, had become something unrecognizable. Fear clung to every corner, suffocating and absolute, as the ordinary morning shattered into chaos.

The scene outside Indigo Run Middle School unfolded like a waking nightmare, broadcast across screens nationwide.

Helicopter footage showed students climbing out of windows, their faces pale and tear-streaked as they dropped into the arms of waiting first responders. Fire trucks and ambulances were parked chaotically on the school lawn, their lights flashing red and blue against the building’s beige walls. The chaotic symphony of sirens, shouted orders, and muffled screams filled the air. Reporters spoke in hushed, urgent tones, their faces grim as they struggled to piece together the events.

“We are live outside Indigo Run Middle School in Chantilly, Virginia,” a CNN reporter began, clutching her microphone with trembling hands. Behind her, a mother sobbed uncontrollably as a paramedic tried to guide her toward an ambulance. “Reports are coming in of an active shooter situation. Students are being evacuated through windows, as you can see behind me, but—” she broke off as another volley of gunfire echoed from inside the building. Her face went pale, and she instinctively ducked. “Gunfire is still ongoing,” she whispered hoarsely.

On Fox News, the anchor’s voice was tight. “We’ve just received confirmation that SWAT teams are entering the building. It’s chaos here, absolute chaos. Parents are being held back by police as they beg for information on their children.”

The screen cut to a shot of the school parking lot, where dozens of frantic parents were gathered, their faces etched with terror. One father grabbed the arm of an officer. “My daughter’s in there!” he yelled, his voice breaking. “She’s in eighth grade—where is she? WHERE IS SHE?” The officer didn’t answer, gently pushing him back into the crowd.

Social media posts poured in, each one more chilling than the last. A grainy Snapchat video, taken from under a desk in a darkened classroom, showed students huddled together, their faces illuminated by the faint glow of phones. In the background, the sound of rapid gunfire reverberated, followed by muffled screams. A caption read: “We’re hiding. I think he’s coming. Please pray for us.”

Another video, shaky and out of focus, captured a group of students sprinting across the school lawn, their backpacks bouncing against their shoulders. A girl tripped and fell, and a boy doubled back to grab her arm, pulling her to her feet as they ran toward a line of waiting police officers. “Move, move, move!” one officer yelled, waving them forward.

MSNBC aired a live interview with a teacher who had escaped the building. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, her voice trembling as she spoke. “We heard the shots—so many shots—and I just…I told the kids to hide. To stay quiet. I don’t know how we got out. I don’t—” She broke down, unable to continue, as the anchor murmured condolences.

A local news station cut to aerial footage of SWAT officers breaching the school’s main entrance. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the feed, followed by another series of gunshots. “This is still very much an active situation,” the reporter said grimly. “We’ve been told that law enforcement has engaged the suspect. The situation remains fluid, and the death toll is unclear at this time.”

On TikTok, a livestream from a student inside the school went viral. The camera panned shakily around a classroom as students huddled in the corner, their faces pale with terror. One girl whispered, “I think he’s in the hallway. Oh my God, he’s right there,” before the feed abruptly cut out. The video was reposted thousands of times within minutes, the comments filling with prayers and messages of disbelief.

And then, the breaking news: the shooter had been neutralized.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have confirmation from law enforcement,” the CNN anchor announced, her voice heavy with emotion. “The shooter has been killed by SWAT officers. Repeat: the shooter is deceased. But the death toll…” She paused, her throat working as she struggled to continue. “The death toll is staggering. Forty-six lives have been lost—thirty-four students, eight teachers, and four staff members. This is one of the deadliest school shootings in U.S. history.”

The screen split into a montage of images: an empty pair of shoes lying abandoned on the lawn, a line of students being escorted out with their hands above their heads, and paramedics wheeling a stretcher covered with a bloodstained sheet into an ambulance. The images blurred together, each one more haunting than the last.

Outside the White House, the president addressed the nation in a solemn, televised speech. “Today, we mourn as a nation. Forty-six innocent lives were taken in an act of unspeakable violence. We must come together to support the survivors, the families, and the community of Chantilly, Virginia. And we must—” He paused, his expression hardening. “We must do better.”

Across the country, vigils sprang up, candles flickering in the hands of strangers brought together by shared grief. On Capitol Hill, lawmakers began issuing statements, their words predictable and hollow. “Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims,” one senator tweeted. Another added, “We must take a stand against violence in our schools,” as public outrage swelled in the comments.

But for those watching from their living rooms, the images were what stayed. A bloodied shoe. A trembling teacher. A lifeless body covered in a tarp. And the sound of a mother’s anguished scream, carried across the newsfeed like an echo of a nation’s collective heartbreak.

The world watched, horrified and helpless, as Rocky Run Middle School became the newest name in a growing list of tragedies no one wanted to believe could happen again.

A Series of Trauma Sessions

Dr. Franklin Monroe had seen many kinds of trauma in his 20 years as a licensed psychologist, but nothing prepared him for the stories coming out of Indigo Run Middle School. He had agreed to take on the survivors after the community’s request for a specialist in post-traumatic stress. Despite his years of experience with soldiers, abuse survivors, and victims of violent crime, he knew this would be different. These were children, teachers, and staff—everyday people blindsided by a horror most could only imagine.

Franklin’s office was designed to be a safe space. The walls were painted a soft, calming blue, with framed nature photographs lining the room. Plush chairs and a low table sat in the middle, and a box of tissues rested on every surface within arm’s reach. But he also knew no amount of decor could soften the stories he was about to hear.

He opened his leather notebook, jotting down the first name of today’s patient. A child. Thirteen years old. He leaned back, his pen tapping softly against the page. The first session was always the hardest—not for him, but for the survivors, who had to dredge up memories they would rather bury.

Franklin exhaled, his heart heavy with the knowledge that for every survivor who walked into his office, there were parents planning funerals and empty seats in classrooms that would never be filled again.

He took a moment to steel himself, letting the silence settle. This wasn’t just about understanding their trauma—it was about helping them survive it.

Therapy Session: Mary (13)

Mary sat hunched in the corner of the chair, her knees drawn up to her chest, the oversized sleeves of her hoodie almost swallowing her hands. She stared down at the carpet, her fingers twisting a loose thread on her cuff, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she muttered.

Dr. Franklin nodded, his pen poised over his notebook but not moving. “That’s okay, Mary. We can go at your pace.”

Her lips pressed together in a thin line. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. Finally, she spoke, her voice trembling. “It’s just… I can still hear it. The gunshots. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there.”

Franklin leaned forward slightly. “That’s called a flashback. It’s your brain trying to process what happened. It’s not your fault, Mary.”

She scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like my brain is processing anything. It feels like it’s stuck. Like I’m stuck. I can’t even walk down the fucking hallway without…” Her voice broke, and she clenched her fists tightly, her knuckles turning white.

“It’s okay to feel that way,” Franklin said gently. “What happens when you try?”

Her shoulders stiffened, and tears welled up in her eyes. “I freak out,” she admitted. “I feel like I can’t breathe, like someone’s squeezing my chest. My mom doesn’t get it. She keeps saying, ‘Just go to school, Mary, you need to go back.’ But I can’t! I can’t go back there. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her hands to her face, her body shaking with sobs. “I keep seeing his face. The way he looked when he—when he…”

Franklin handed her a tissue, his voice steady. “Take your time.”

Mary swiped at her tears angrily, her face flushing with frustration. “It’s stupid. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I lived. Other people—” She stopped, her throat tightening. “Other people didn’t.”

“That’s called survivor’s guilt,” Franklin said gently. “It’s common after an experience like this. But it’s not your fault, Mary. None of it is.”

Her jaw clenched. “I can still feel it. The bullet. It burned like fire. I thought I was gonna die right there, just bleeding out in the hallway.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes I wish I had. At least then it would be over.”

Franklin’s heart sank, but he kept his expression calm. “That’s a heavy thing to feel. But you’re here. And that means there’s a part of you that wants to live, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

Mary didn’t answer, just stared at her hands, her shoulders still trembling.

Flashback: Mary’s Perspective

The hallway is a crush of bodies, noise ricocheting off the cinderblock walls. Lockers slam, sneakers squeak against the polished floor, voices blend into an unrelenting hum that sets your nerves on edge. You tug at the strap of your backpack, your algebra textbook digging into your side as you try to squeeze through the crowd.

“Move it, slowpoke!” someone snarls, shoving you forward. Your shoulder bangs against a locker, and you grit your teeth. You hate this—the press of people, the way the hallway seems too narrow, the way it always feels like the air is just a little too thin.

And then it happens.

CRACK.

You freeze mid-step. The sound doesn’t make sense at first. It’s too sharp, too loud—like a locker slamming, but wrong, somehow. You turn your head, confused, just as it happens again. And again. Louder. Closer.

Screams erupt. Not the playful shrieks you’re used to hearing, but real screams—raw, guttural, full of terror. Your stomach twists, your body stiffening as the noise washes over you. And then you see him.

A boy. He collapses in front of you, his knees buckling like a marionette whose strings have been cut. Blood spills from his chest, pooling on the floor in a thick, glistening puddle. It spreads toward you, and your legs refuse to move.

“RUN!” someone screams.

The hallway explodes into chaos. Bodies jostle against you, shoving, screaming, crying. Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of your chest. You don’t even realize you’re running until your backpack slams against your side. Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts as you push through the panicked crowd.

Behind you, the gunfire continues—louder, sharper, closer. Each shot is like a punch to your chest, making your breath hitch and your legs feel weak. You turn a corner, and that’s when you see him.

The shooter steps into the hallway, his face calm, detached, like he’s walking through a dream. His eyes lock on you, and your blood runs cold. The barrel of his gun rises, and you can’t move. Your legs feel like they’ve been turned to stone, your breath caught in your throat.

CRACK.

The force of the bullet hits you like a freight train. Your shoulder explodes with pain, a burning, searing agony that steals the air from your lungs. You stumble back, your body slamming into the wall. Your legs give out, and you slide to the floor, your hand instinctively clutching at the wound. Your fingers come away slick and hot with blood.

You can’t breathe. The pain is blinding, consuming. The world around you blurs as the screams fade into a distant roar, like you’re underwater. Your vision narrows, tunneling until all you see is the blood spreading across your chest and the boy crumpled on the floor ahead of you.

“MARY!”

The sound of your name cuts through the haze, sharp and urgent. You force your eyes upward and see Mr. Harrison running toward you, his tie flapping wildly as he shoves students out of the way. His face is pale, his eyes wide with panic as he drops to his knees beside you.

“Stay with me, Mary,” he says, his voice trembling as he presses his hands against your shoulder. Pain flares again, sharp and overwhelming, and you can’t stop the whimper that escapes your lips. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

You try to speak, but your throat feels like it’s closing. Your breaths come in shallow gasps, each one a struggle.

Gunfire erupts again, the sound ricocheting through the hallway. Mr. Harrison’s head snaps up, his face tightening. “We have to move,” he says, his voice urgent. “Can you stand?”

You shake your head weakly, tears spilling down your cheeks. You can’t feel your legs. You’re not even sure they’re still there.

“Alright,” he says, his voice hardening with determination. “Hold on to me.”

He lifts you, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain tearing through your body, and you let out a strangled cry. Blood soaks into his shirt, warm and sticky, but he doesn’t stop. He kicks open the door to his classroom and carries you inside.

The room is a blur of pale faces and overturned desks. Students huddle together, their eyes wide with terror. Mr. Harrison sets you down on the floor as gently as he can, grabbing a jacket from the back of a chair and pressing it against your shoulder.

“Barricade the door!” he barks, his voice sharp and commanding. The students scramble, their movements frantic and clumsy as they shove desks and chairs against the door.

Your vision swims. The edges of the room blur and darken, and you can feel yourself slipping, like you’re being pulled under water.

“Stay with me, Mary,” Mr. Harrison says again, his hand firm against your shoulder. His voice wavers, but his eyes are locked on yours, desperate and pleading. “You’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

But as the muffled sound of gunfire echoes from the hallway, you’re not sure you believe him. The world is fading, the pain is fading, and all you can think is that you don’t want to die. Not here. Not like this.

And then the darkness takes you.

Therapy Session: John (12)

John sat across from Dr. Franklin, his body slumped in the oversized chair, his hands gripping the fabric of his jeans so tightly his knuckles turned white. His dark eyes stared down at the floor, avoiding the doctor’s gaze. He looked far older than twelve in that moment, his face drawn and hollowed by exhaustion.

Franklin waited, giving the boy the space to speak. He’d learned early in his career that silence often drew out what words couldn’t.

Finally, John spoke, his voice low and barely steady. “I shouldn’t have let him open the door.”

Franklin leaned forward slightly. “What do you mean, John?”

John’s head jerked up, his expression almost accusing. “I let him do it. Scott. He asked me if we should open the door, and I didn’t stop him. I just—I said, ‘Yeah.’ Like a fucking idiot!” His voice cracked, and he looked away again, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Franklin remained calm, his tone gentle. “You didn’t know what was going to happen.”

“I should have!” John snapped, his voice shaking. “I heard the shots. Everyone heard them. And I still said, ‘Yeah, go ahead.’ What kind of idiot does that?”

“You were scared,” Franklin offered. “You were in a situation no one should ever have to face. You couldn’t have known what was on the other side of that door.”

John let out a bitter laugh. “He trusted me. Scott trusted me, and now he’s dead.” His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “I can still see him. Every time I close my eyes, I see him lying there, bleeding. I see his face…”

Tears spilled over, and he wiped at his eyes furiously. “He was screaming. Begging me for help, and I—I just stood there like a coward. I didn’t even try to save him.”

Franklin’s heart ached for the boy. “What happened to Scott wasn’t your fault, John. You were trying to keep yourself and your classmates safe.”

“I should’ve died too,” John whispered, his voice breaking. “It should’ve been me. Not him.”

Flashback: John’s Perspective (Second Person)

The classroom feels like a tomb, the air so heavy with fear and sweat you can barely breathe. You’re pressed against the cold concrete wall, your back digging into it so hard it hurts, but you don’t dare move. Around you, your classmates are frozen in place—some crouched under desks, others curled up in corners, their faces streaked with tears and twisted in silent terror.

“Should we open it?” Scott whispers. His voice is barely audible, but it still cuts through the suffocating silence like a razor. He’s crouched near the door, his hand trembling just above the knob.

You swallow hard, your throat dry and tight. The distant sound of gunfire reverberates through the building, each muffled crack sending shivers down your spine. “I don’t know,” you whisper back, though the words feel hollow. “Maybe it’s the cops?”

Scott nods, his face pale and strained, his eyes darting toward the door like it might explode. “I’ll just check, okay? I’ll be quick.”

Quick. You nod, the word bouncing around your head like it means something. “Yeah. Be quick.”

You watch as he turns the knob, the metallic click so loud it makes your whole body flinch. He opens the door just a crack—just enough to peek outside.

And then it happens.

A shadow moves, and your stomach drops.

The gun goes off, the sound deafening, and Scott jerks violently as the first bullet slams into his chest. His eyes go wide, his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He stumbles back, his hands clutching at the growing red stain spreading across his shirt.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Three more shots. You watch, frozen, as blood sprays across the linoleum in a grotesque arc, splattering the walls and your shoes. Scott collapses, crumpling to the floor like a broken puppet, his legs twitching once, twice—and then nothing.

The door slams shut on its own, the sound reverberating through the room like a death knell.

“FUCK!” The scream rips out of your throat before you can stop it. You scramble backward, your palms slipping on the slick floor, your heart hammering so hard it feels like it might burst. “Oh my God! Oh my God! He’s dead! SCOTT’S DEAD!”

The room erupts into chaos. Someone is sobbing, loud and uncontrollable, their cries blending with the sound of desks screeching across the floor as panicked hands shove them toward the door.

“Barricade it!” you scream, your voice cracking and shrill. Your legs refuse to work, so you crawl, your hands slapping against the blood-slick linoleum as you drag yourself toward the barricade. “He’s coming! HURRY!”

The gunfire outside grows louder. Closer. Each shot sends a jolt of terror through your body like an electric shock.

“We’re gonna die,” someone whimpers, their voice high and quaking. “We’re all gonna die.”

“SHUT UP!” you snap, spinning toward the voice. Your own voice breaks, raw and desperate. “Nobody’s dying! Just shut up and HELP ME!”

But even as you say it, you know it’s a lie. You feel it in the air, in the walls, in the blood beneath your knees. The sobbing grows louder, and your head snaps toward the corner, where a girl is curled up, her hands pressed against her ears. Her body rocks back and forth like she’s trying to disappear.

You want to tell her it’s going to be okay. That she’s safe. That you’ll get her out of here. But you can’t, because you don’t believe it. The words die in your throat.

The gunfire stops. The silence is worse.

Your heart pounds in your ears as you glance at the windows. “Out the window,” you whisper, the words tumbling out without thought. “We have to go out the window.”

Nobody moves. They just stare at you, their eyes wide and empty, their faces pale as ghosts.

“NOW!” you shout, crawling toward the row of windows at the back of the room. Your hands slip in Scott’s blood, warm and sticky, but you force yourself forward. The window creaks as you shove it open. “GO!”

The first kid hesitates, but you grab their arm and practically shove them through the opening. One by one, they follow, their movements jerky and frantic. Your arms tremble as you hoist yourself onto the ledge, the cold air biting against your sweat-soaked skin.

Behind you, the door splinters.

You don’t look back. You drop into the bushes below, the impact jarring every bone in your body, but you barely feel it. You grab the nearest kid, their arm like a lifeline in your grip. “RUN!” you shout, shoving them forward. “JUST FUCKING RUN!”

You sprint across the lawn, your legs shaking beneath you, your lungs burning. The sound of gunfire rings in your ears, and you’re not sure if it’s real or if it’s in your head.

When you finally glance back, the classroom door is hanging open. The barricade is gone, scattered like discarded toys. Blood glistens under the harsh fluorescent light.

Scott is still lying there. Alone.

You keep running.

Therapy Session: Michael (13)

Michael sat on the edge of the couch, his hands clenched into tight fists on his knees. His foot bounced nervously, the repetitive motion filling the room with faint squeaks against the hardwood floor. He wouldn’t look at Dr. Franklin, his eyes glued to the tissue box on the table. His face was pale, drawn tight with exhaustion, and he blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back tears.

“You don’t have to talk about it all at once,” Franklin said gently, watching the boy’s tense posture. “We can start wherever you feel comfortable.”

Michael scoffed, a bitter, shaky sound. “Comfortable?” His voice cracked as he spoke. “There’s no fucking part of this that’s comfortable.”

Franklin nodded, staying quiet, giving Michael the space to continue.

The boy’s hands tightened into fists again, his knuckles white. “It was my fault,” he said, his voice trembling. “I should’ve done something. I just sat there like a fucking coward while everyone else…” His voice trailed off, and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands against his forehead. “I let her die.”

“Who?” Franklin asked softly.

“Leslie,” Michael snapped, his head jerking up, tears pooling in his eyes. “And Mrs. Potter. And all those kids. I could’ve done something. I could’ve stopped him.” His voice broke on the last word, and he looked away, his chest heaving. “But I didn’t. I hid like a little bitch.”

Franklin leaned forward, his voice steady and calm. “Michael, you were trying to survive. That’s not cowardice. That’s human.”

Michael shook his head violently. “No, you don’t get it. I saw it happen. I saw her get shot, and I just froze. She was bleeding all over the floor, and I just sat there behind that stupid fucking table, listening to everyone scream while he—while he…” His voice cracked again, and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling.

“You couldn’t have stopped him,” Franklin said, his tone firm but compassionate. “You were thirteen years old, Michael, and he had a gun. You did the only thing you could: you survived.”

“I didn’t deserve to,” Michael spat, his face contorted in anger and grief. “Not after what I did. Not after what I didn’t do.”

Flashback: Michael’s Perspective

The art room was your sanctuary, the quiet hum of pencil strokes against paper soothing in a way few things ever were. Mrs. Potter’s voice, soft and encouraging, filled the room like a warm blanket. You were hunched over your sketchpad, concentrating on the delicate shading of a leaf, when the first sound shattered everything.

CRACK. CRACK.

You freeze. Your pencil slips from your hand, hitting the floor with a faint clatter. Around you, the other students look up, their faces blank with confusion. For a second, the room holds its breath.

“What was that?” someone whispers, their voice thin and fragile.

Mrs. Potter rises from her desk, her brow furrowed. “Stay where you are,” she says, her tone steady but laced with something unfamiliar—fear. Her heels click against the linoleum as she heads toward the door, her movements calm, deliberate. “I’ll check.”

She doesn’t get the chance.

The door bursts open so violently that the crash against the wall echoes in your chest. He steps into the room, his silhouette framed by the harsh fluorescent lights of the hallway. The gun in his hands looks absurdly out of place, like something out of a movie. His face is blank, a void, as if nothing human resides inside him.

For a heartbeat, the world is silent.

And then everything collapses.

The screams start—a high-pitched, frantic symphony that drowns out your thoughts.

“Get down!” Mrs. Potter yells, throwing her arms wide, her body shielding the nearest students. “Get under the—”

CRACK.

The sound is deafening. Mrs. Potter staggers backward, her hands clutching at the dark red stain blooming across her chest. Her legs buckle, and she crumples to the floor, her head lolling to the side. Her eyes flutter once, then go still.

Your stomach churns. You can’t think. You can’t move. You can only stare at the blood pooling beneath her, the deep red spreading like ink on paper.

A table crashes to the floor behind you, jarring you back into your body. Your legs feel like jelly as you scramble toward the overturned table, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You huddle against the cold metal, pressing your knees to your chest as if you could make yourself smaller, invisible.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

The gunshots tear through the air, each one louder than the last. You risk a glance over the edge of the table and see Leslie standing in the middle of the room, her arms raised, her body trembling. Her voice is barely audible over the chaos. “Please,” she says, her words choked and desperate. “Please don’t—”

CRACK.

The bullet hits her square in the chest. Her body jerks as if struck by lightning. She crumples to the floor in slow motion, her arms outstretched, her fingers twitching like she’s reaching for something that isn’t there. Blood spills from her mouth as she tries to speak, but no sound comes out. Her eyes lock with yours for a fleeting moment before they go blank, staring at nothing.

You drop back behind the table, your heart slamming against your ribs. Your breaths come in shallow, panicked gasps, each one scraping your throat raw. You press your hands over your ears, trying to drown out the sound—the gunfire, the screams, the sickening thuds as bodies hit the floor.

But you can’t block out his voice.

“You think you can hide from me?” he sneers, his tone low, icy, like a blade pressed against your neck. His footsteps are slow and deliberate, each one sending a jolt of terror through your body. “You think you’re fucking special?”

A chair scrapes against the floor. You hear a girl scream, high and shrill, followed by the crack of another gunshot. Your stomach lurches, bile rising in your throat. You bite down hard on your lip, the metallic taste of blood flooding your mouth.

Don’t make a sound. Don’t breathe. Don’t exist.

The footsteps get closer. You feel the vibrations through the floor, each step heavier than the last. Your entire body trembles as you press yourself against the table, your hands slick with sweat. You don’t dare look, but you see his shadow—long and sharp—stretching across the floor.

He stops. Right in front of you.

Your chest tightens, the air squeezed from your lungs. You want to scream, to beg, but your throat won’t work. Your heart feels like it’s going to explode, the rhythm erratic and wild.

And then—miraculously—he moves on.

You wait until the footsteps fade, until the gunfire is nothing more than a distant echo. Your body shakes as you crawl out from behind the table, your palms slipping in the blood smeared across the floor. The room is unrecognizable—a twisted, horrific painting of overturned chairs, shattered glass, and lifeless bodies.

Leslie is just a few feet away, her lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. You turn away, your stomach heaving, but there’s nothing to throw up. Your legs feel like rubber as you stumble toward the window. The latch sticks, and you wrench it open with trembling hands. You haul yourself up and over the ledge, the cold air hitting you like a slap to the face.

When you drop to the ground outside, your knees buckle. The screams inside the school echo in your ears, sharp and relentless, digging into your mind like claws.

And you know they will never stop.

Therapy Session: Leslie (14)

Leslie sat stiffly on the couch, her hands gripping her knees so hard her nails left tiny crescent-shaped indents in her skin. A thick bandage covered her chest beneath her hoodie, the slight shift of her body betraying the pain that even sitting still caused her. Her face was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line, but her eyes told the story—haunted, hollow, and brimming with guilt.

Dr. Franklin broke the silence gently. “How are you feeling today, Leslie?”

She gave a short, bitter laugh, her voice tight. “How do you think I’m feeling? I got shot, like, actually shot, and now everyone looks at me like I’m some kind of freak show. So, yeah, I’m great.”

Franklin nodded, his tone even. “You’re angry.”

“Of course, I’m angry!” she snapped, her voice rising. “I can’t even stand up straight without it feeling like my chest is on fire. I can’t sleep without hearing their screams. Every time I close my eyes, I’m right back in that fucking room, watching Mrs. Potter die, watching them die. And I just lay there like a goddamn coward.”

“You were shot, Leslie,” Franklin said gently. “You couldn’t move.”

“I should’ve moved!” she shouted, her hands shaking. “I should’ve helped them! I could’ve—I don’t know—grabbed something, thrown something, done anything! But instead, I just crawled behind the counter and… and watched.”

Her voice broke, and tears spilled down her cheeks, but she didn’t wipe them away. “I watched them die, and I didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.”

Franklin leaned forward, his voice steady. “What you did was survive, Leslie. You were trying to stay alive.”

Her laugh was cold, hollow. “And for what? So I can sit here and feel like this? So I can spend the rest of my life wondering why I lived and they didn’t?”

Flashback: Leslie’s Perspective

The art room was your refuge, a haven filled with the smell of paint, the faint earthy scent of clay, and the quiet hum of creativity. You leaned over your sketchpad, your pencil tracing delicate lines that formed the twisting branches of an old tree. Mrs. Potter’s voice floated gently through the room, a steady rhythm of calm encouragement.

“That’s lovely, Leslie,” she said as she passed, her smile warm, reassuring. You nodded, your focus fixed on the shading of the leaves, not daring to break your flow.

And then it came.

CRACK.

The sound shattered the room like glass, sharp and jarring, leaving an unnatural silence in its wake. Your pencil slipped from your fingers, tumbling onto the desk with a faint rattle. Your heart stuttered, a sudden heavy thud against your ribs. Around you, heads lifted, eyes wide, the atmosphere rippling with confusion.

“What was that?” someone whispered, the words trembling.

Mrs. Potter’s face changed in an instant, her brow furrowing, her lips pressing tight. “Stay where you are,” she said, her voice low but unsteady. “Everyone—just stay calm.”

Another shot. Louder. Closer. The unmistakable crack of a gun.

Your stomach lurched, a sickening twist as the reality slammed into you. This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t fireworks.

“Under the tables! Now!” Mrs. Potter’s voice cracked with urgency, sharp and commanding, breaking the spell that held the room frozen.

Chairs screeched against the floor as everyone scrambled for cover. You dove beneath your desk, your knees hitting the hard tile as you folded yourself as small as you could. Your breath came fast, shallow, jagged as you hugged your legs, your whole body trembling.

And then the door exploded open.

The crash was deafening, the sound slamming into you like a physical force. Your head jerked up, and you saw him. A shadow against the blinding light of the hallway. The gun in his hands gleamed, too real, too vivid against the muted chaos of the room.

“Please, no…” Mrs. Potter’s voice was soft, desperate. She took a step forward, her hands raised as if she could stop the inevitability of it.

The gunshot ripped through the air. CRACK.

You flinched as she staggered backward, the red stain on her blouse spreading like spilled ink. Her eyes widened, her lips parting in a silent gasp before she crumpled to the floor. Her head hit the tile with a dull thud, her body limp, lifeless.

Someone screamed, a raw, piercing sound that cut straight through you. Your body moved without thought, instinct driving you to crawl, to get away, to disappear. Your hands pressed against the floor, sticky with something warm and wet—blood. You didn’t look down. You couldn’t.

The shooter moved into the room, his footsteps slow, deliberate. The sound of his boots against the floor was rhythmic, relentless, a metronome of death. “Think you can hide from me?” His voice was calm, almost conversational. “You think you’re special?”

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tight, burning. You tried to stay quiet, to still the trembling of your limbs, but your body betrayed you. Tears streamed down your face, blurring your vision as you crawled toward the counter at the back of the room.

And then it hit you.

The bullet was like fire, searing and brutal as it tore through your chest. You collapsed, the pain so overwhelming you couldn’t even scream. Your hands flew to the wound, your fingers slick with blood as you tried to stop the impossible flood.

You dragged yourself behind the counter, every inch a battle. Your breaths came shallow, ragged, each one sharper than the last. You pressed your back against the cold wood, your body trembling uncontrollably as the blood seeped through your shirt, pooling beneath you.

“Please…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You weren’t sure who you were begging—him, the universe, God.

The footsteps came closer, and you froze. His shadow stretched long across the floor, reaching for you like a monster in a nightmare. He was so close you could hear his breathing, steady and unhurried.

Someone whimpered nearby, their voice faint, broken. “Help me…”

CRACK.

The sound was final. Absolute.

You bit down hard on your lip, tasting blood as you fought the scream clawing its way up your throat. The room reeked of gunpowder and death, the coppery tang of blood thick in the air. You wanted to close your eyes, to shut it all out, but you couldn’t look away. You couldn’t move.

The footsteps retreated, the sound growing fainter, until all that was left was the ringing in your ears and the ragged sound of your own breathing.

You opened your eyes slowly, staring at the ceiling. The fluorescent lights flickered, casting uneven shadows across the room. Somewhere far away, sirens wailed, their mournful cries cutting through the suffocating silence.

But it was too late. Everything was already gone.

Therapy Session: Amil (14)

Amil sat on the couch with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his posture rigid. He stared out the window, avoiding Dr. Franklin’s gaze, his jaw clenched. His eyes were red and bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days, and the tension in his body was palpable.

Franklin waited a moment before speaking. “How are you holding up, Amil?”

Amil let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “How do you think? Everyone keeps asking that, like there’s some good answer. I’m fine. I survived. Lucky me, right?”

Franklin leaned forward slightly. “It sounds like you don’t feel very lucky.”

Amil’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing in his eyes. “Because I’m not. I’m here, but Phoebe isn’t. I’m here, and those kids in the art room aren’t. Why the fuck should I feel lucky?” His voice cracked, and he looked away again, blinking hard.

“You’re angry,” Franklin observed.

“No shit,” Amil muttered, his voice low and tense. “I’m angry at everything. At him. At the world. At myself.” He paused, his throat tightening. “I saw her, you know. Phoebe. I saw what he did to her, and I just…I just left her there.”

“You couldn’t help her, Amil,” Franklin said gently. “You couldn’t have stopped what happened to her.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Amil snapped. “I shouldn’t have left her like that. I should’ve…I don’t know, done something. Prayed harder. Begged God to make it stop. But nothing worked. Nothing fucking worked.”

Franklin stayed quiet, letting Amil’s words settle.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Amil said, his voice breaking. “None of them did. And now I’m stuck here, alive, and all I can think about is why me? Why not her? Why not anyone else?”

“You feel guilty for surviving,” Franklin said softly.

“Yeah, I feel guilty,” Amil spat, tears brimming in his eyes. “I feel guilty every damn day.”

Flashback: Amil’s Perspective

The room feels safe—small, quiet, a sanctuary. You kneel on the worn carpet, the familiar texture grounding you as your hands clasp tightly together. The Quran lies open before you, its pages well-worn, the comforting words spilling softly from your lips. Your whispered prayers fill the stillness, your voice trembling.

“Please, Allah,” you murmur, your breath uneven. “Keep us safe. Keep us all safe.”

Then the first gunshot tears through the silence.

The sound slams into you, sharp and jarring, echoing faintly through the walls. You freeze, your hands gripping one another so tightly they hurt. Your heart stumbles, the air catching in your throat. A second shot comes, louder, closer, like a thunderclap in your ears.

Your prayer is forgotten. The words slip from your mind, replaced by a rising panic. What’s happening?

The third shot is followed by screams. Blood-chilling, desperate screams. They ripple through the hallway, high-pitched and frantic, cutting into you like a blade. You scramble to your feet, your legs weak beneath you as your gaze snaps to the door.

You hesitate. Stay or run? Stay or—?

The door creaks as you crack it open, just enough to peek into the hallway. The sight before you freezes your blood.

The corridor is deserted, eerily still. Backpacks lie abandoned, their contents spilled across the floor. Pages of notebooks flutter weakly in the air, disturbed by an unseen draft. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting uneven shadows that make everything look wrong.

You step out, your legs trembling so violently you can barely walk. “Hello?” you whisper, the word barely audible. It feels like a mistake as soon as it leaves your lips.

No response.

The gunshots erupt again, shattering the tense quiet. Closer now. So close they make your chest tighten. You stagger backward, pressing yourself against the cold, unyielding wall. Your breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, each one sharper than the last.

You need to get out. You need to run.

But you can’t—not yet. Not without checking if someone else needs help. The thought grips you, holds you in place even as your instincts scream at you to flee.

A soft, broken sob drifts toward you. It’s faint, barely there, but it pulls you forward like a magnet. The sound is coming from the restroom.

Your hand shakes violently as you push the door open. It creaks on its hinges, and the smell hits you immediately.

Blood. Metallic, sharp, overwhelming.

Your stomach lurches. The bile rises in your throat as your eyes take in the scene. She’s lying near the sinks, her body crumpled, twisted at an unnatural angle. Phoebe. Her pink sneakers are soaked in blood, a sickening red that spreads across the tiles in a glistening pool.

You gag, stumbling backward, your vision swimming. “Oh my God,” you whisper, your voice breaking. Your hands tremble so hard you can’t feel your fingers. You don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears blur your vision.

The faint sound of whimpering snaps you back. It’s coming from one of the stalls, low and terrified.

You force yourself to move, your legs like lead as you step around Phoebe’s lifeless body. You don’t look at her. You can’t. Your hand presses against the first stall door, and you push it open slowly.

Two faces stare back at you, wide-eyed and tear-streaked. Annie and Ian. They’re huddled together in the corner, clutching each other so tightly their knuckles are white.

“It’s okay,” you lie, your voice cracking. “Come on. We have to go.”

Annie shakes her head violently, her whole body trembling. “She’s dead,” she whispers, her voice so raw it barely sounds human. “He killed her.”

“I know,” you choke out. “I know. But we can’t stay here. Please. We have to go.”

Ian moves first, tugging Annie’s arm, pulling her to her feet. You guide them toward the window at the far end of the restroom, your heart pounding so hard it feels like it might break through your ribs.

“Hurry,” you urge, glancing back toward the door. The shots are louder now, the sound of boots pounding against the floor sending fresh waves of terror through you.

You boost Ian up first, your hands slick with sweat as he climbs out. Annie hesitates, her tear-filled gaze locked on Phoebe’s body. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking, before she climbs through the window.

You follow, your hands trembling as you haul yourself through. The cool air outside feels like a slap to the face, harsh and unforgiving. You drop to the ground, your legs buckling beneath you. But you don’t stop.

“Run,” you gasp, shoving Ian forward. “Just fucking run!”

You sprint across the lawn, the others stumbling behind you. The sirens are faint, growing louder with each desperate step. But no matter how far you run, the image of Phoebe’s lifeless body stays burned into your mind.

Her blood-soaked sneakers. Her twisted form. Her empty, staring eyes.

And you know you’ll never outrun it. Not ever.

Therapy Session: Officer Tammany (30)

Officer Tammany sat stiffly in the chair, his uniform jacket draped over the armrest beside him. His hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles white, his jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might crack. His eyes, rimmed red from days of crying, stared blankly at the floor. He hadn’t spoken since he sat down.

Dr. Franklin watched him carefully, giving him the silence he needed. Finally, Tammany broke it, his voice low and gravelly. “He shouldn’t have been there. I shouldn’t have been there.”

“You mean Scott?” Franklin asked gently.

Tammany’s head snapped up, and his eyes burned with a mixture of anger and grief. “Who the fuck else would I mean?” he snarled, then immediately winced, like he regretted the outburst. “Sorry. I just…I can’t stop seeing him. Lying there. Covered in blood. I…Jesus Christ, I held him. I held him, and he was already gone.”

Franklin nodded, keeping his tone even. “You were doing your job, and you didn’t know—”

“I should’ve known!” Tammany interrupted, his voice rising. “I heard the gunfire. I was clearing rooms. And then…then I walked into that hallway, and there he was. My son. My boy.” His voice broke, and he buried his face in his hands, his broad shoulders trembling. “He was cold. I was holding him, and he was so fucking cold.”

Franklin stayed quiet, letting the man gather himself. Tammany exhaled shakily, his voice softer but no less pained. “I was supposed to protect him. That’s my job—to protect people. And I couldn’t even protect my own son.”

“It’s not your fault, Officer Tammany,” Franklin said gently. “You couldn’t have known where he was. You couldn’t have stopped—”

“Don’t,” Tammany said sharply, his eyes flashing. “Don’t try to tell me it’s not my fault. He’s dead because I wasn’t fast enough. Because I didn’t stop that bastard sooner.”

Tammany’s voice broke again, and he gripped the armrests of the chair so tightly his hands shook. “I keep seeing his face. The look in his eyes when I found him. It’s like he was waiting for me to save him, and I didn’t. I fucking didn’t.”

Flashback: Officer Tammany’s Perspective

The hallway is hell.

The air reeks of blood and gunpowder, the stench so sharp it clogs your throat. Broken glass crunches underfoot, and the screams—God, the screams—echo down the corridors, sharp and guttural, each one worse than the last. You sweep your weapon from side to side, your breath tight, chest heaving, your senses a live wire.

The floor is a battlefield: overturned desks, scattered papers, abandoned backpacks. And blood. So much blood. It streaks the walls, pools around crumpled bodies, stains everything it touches. Your hands shake as you tighten your grip on your gun, forcing yourself to move forward, one step, then another.

The radio crackles in your ear, but you don’t hear the words. Everything is noise—the distant gunfire, the desperate cries for help, the pounding of your own heart in your ears.

Then you turn the corner, and the world stops.

There, on the floor, lies your son.

“Scott?” The word slips out, soft, broken, as if saying it too loud might shatter the fragile illusion that this isn’t real. But it is.

Scott’s small body is crumpled on the blood-slick tile, his blue shirt soaked in crimson. His face—God, his face—is pale, too pale, his eyes staring at nothing. The world tilts under your feet, your knees buckling as you drop to the floor beside him.

“Scott!” you scream, your voice ripping out of you like a wound. You don’t even feel the gun slip from your hand as you reach out, your trembling fingers brushing his cheek. It’s cold. Cold in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

“No, no, no, no.” The words tumble from your lips, a desperate chant, a plea to whatever cruel force might be watching. You press your hands to the wounds on his chest, blood pouring between your fingers, hot and sticky. “Stay with me, buddy. Stay with me. You hear me?”

Your hands are trembling so hard you can barely keep the pressure. His chest doesn’t move, doesn’t rise, doesn’t fucking breathe.

“Come on, Scott,” you beg, tears streaming down your face, dripping onto his bloodied shirt. “Please, buddy. Please, wake up. Just…just wake up.”

But there’s nothing. No twitch of his fingers, no flicker of his eyelids. Just the unbearable stillness of your boy in your arms.

The world around you blurs, the screams and gunfire fading to a dull roar. It’s just you and Scott now, his small body cradled in your lap, his blood soaking through your uniform.

The radio crackles again, voices barking commands, but they might as well be speaking another language. You can’t process it. Can’t focus. All you can see is Scott.

“Tammany!” a voice shouts, sharp and urgent. You don’t look up. You can’t.

The footsteps approach quickly, the voice growing louder. “We’ve got to move! The shooter’s still in the building!”

You shake your head, your whole body trembling. “I can’t,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “I can’t leave him.”

The officer kneels beside you, his hand firm on your shoulder. “We’ll come back for him, I swear. But right now, you have to get up. You have to move.”

“I can’t,” you choke out, the tears choking you, blurring everything. “He’s my son. I can’t…”

The other officer’s grip tightens, grounding you, forcing you to look at him. “We’ll come back,” he says, his voice steady but strained. “But you can’t save anyone else if you stay here. You know that.”

Your chest shatters, the pieces grinding together as you look down at Scott one last time. His face is still, serene, untouched by the chaos around him. You lean forward, pressing a trembling kiss to his blood-matted hair.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

And then, somehow, you stand. Your legs are shaking, barely holding you up, but you force them to move. Step by step, you follow your partner down the bloodstained hallway.

But your heart stays behind, lying on that cold tile floor, in the lifeless arms of the boy you couldn’t save.

Therapy Session: Kate (13)

Kate sat in the corner of the couch, her knees pulled tightly to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. Her head was tilted downward, her chin resting on her knees, her messy hair partially obscuring her face. She barely moved, except for the faint tremor running through her legs.

Dr. Franklin waited for her to speak, giving her the space she needed. The silence stretched out between them until Kate finally broke it, her voice soft and brittle.

“I hate being in rooms now. Especially small ones,” she whispered. “Every time I go into a room, I think…I think I won’t come out again.”

Franklin leaned forward slightly. “You’re safe here, Kate. Nothing can hurt you in this room.”

Her head shot up, her eyes wide and wild. “That’s what Principal Dudley said! He said, ‘Lock the door, and you’ll be fine.’ And you know what? He was wrong. He’s fucking dead!” Her voice cracked, and she bit her lip hard, her body shaking with rage and fear.

Franklin let her words hang in the air for a moment before speaking gently. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Kate. You did what he asked you to do.”

“I didn’t do enough!” she shouted, her voice high-pitched and panicked. “I just sat there! I could’ve helped him—I could’ve run and gotten someone! But I didn’t. I just hid like a fucking coward under his desk and listened to him die.” She buried her face in her hands, her words muffled. “I heard him scream, and I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even open the door.”

“You were scared,” Franklin said softly. “That’s not cowardice, Kate. That’s survival.”

She shook her head violently. “You don’t get it. I can still hear it—the gunshots, the screaming. It’s like…it’s like it’s stuck on repeat in my head, and it won’t stop.” Tears streamed down her face, her voice trembling. “And I can’t even look at a desk without wanting to throw up. It’s like I’m still there, still under that desk, waiting to die.”

Flashback: Kate’s Perspective

The office smells faintly of coffee and printer toner, the hum of a normal school day drifting through the walls. You sit in a chair that’s too big for you, your fingers nervously twisting the strap of your backpack. Principal Dudley leans forward, his kind but firm eyes meeting yours as he speaks about responsibility and falling behind. You nod, pretending to care, but your attention is fixed on a smudge on the carpet, anything but his words.

The first gunshot shatters the quiet.

Your head jerks up, your heart lurching in your chest. Principal Dudley freezes, his brow furrowing. “What was that?” he asks, half to himself.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mouth has gone dry, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Another shot. Louder. Closer.

Screams erupt outside the office, high-pitched and frantic, and suddenly your legs feel like they don’t belong to you. Dudley pushes his chair back, the harsh scrape against the floor snapping you out of your daze.

“Lock the door,” he orders, his voice sharp now. “Now!”

Your hands tremble as you stumble to the door, fumbling with the lock. Your fingers barely work, every movement clumsy and slow, as if the air around you has thickened. Finally, the lock clicks into place.

“What’s happening?” you stammer, your voice shaking.

“Under the desk,” he says, his voice low and urgent. “Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.”

You hesitate, your body rooted to the spot, every nerve screaming at you to run, to hide, to do something.

“Now, Kate!” His voice cuts through your paralysis, and you drop to your knees, scrambling under the desk. The cramped space feels suffocating, your knees pressing into your chest as you try to fold yourself smaller, quieter, invisible.

Dudley crouches low by the door, his body rigid as he peeks through the narrow window. His breathing is steady, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch against the edge of the desk.

Another gunshot, so close it feels like the walls are shaking. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your hands over your ears, but it does nothing to block out the noise or the raw, jagged terror tearing through you.

Then you hear it: the rattle of the doorknob.

Your stomach drops. The metal jiggling sends a cold wave of dread crashing over you, freezing you in place. You stare at the sliver of light beneath the desk, watching as the shadow outside shifts. The doorknob rattles again, harder this time.

“Stay down,” Dudley whispers, glancing back at you. His voice is steady, but his eyes betray him. They’re wide, terrified, glistening with the kind of fear you’ve never seen in an adult before.

The door explodes inward with a deafening crack.

The shooter steps inside, his movements slow, deliberate. The gun is raised, its barrel glinting in the fluorescent light. You press yourself deeper into the corner of the desk, your entire body trembling so violently you think it might give you away.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dudley says, his voice calm but firm. “Please, let’s talk.”

The shooter doesn’t respond. He lifts the gun, the faint click of the mechanism impossibly loud.

“Please—” Dudley tries again, stepping forward, but his words are swallowed by the crack of the gun.

You flinch as blood sprays across the room. Dudley collapses, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud. You can see his face—his eyes half-open, his mouth slack, blood pooling beneath him.

You bite down on your lip so hard it breaks the skin, the metallic taste mixing with the tears streaming down your face. Your breaths come in short, shallow gasps, your chest tightening as panic seizes you.

The shooter moves closer, his boots scraping against the carpet. You watch in paralyzed horror as his shadow stretches across the desk. For a moment, you think he sees you.

But then he turns. His footsteps fade, the door swinging shut behind him.

You don’t move. You can’t. Your body is frozen, every muscle locked in place, even as blood from Dudley’s body seeps toward you, the sticky warmth brushing against your fingertips. The smell is overwhelming—metallic, sharp, nauseating.

The sirens outside grow louder, but they feel far away, unreal. You’re trapped under that desk, staring at Dudley’s lifeless body, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. The sound of the gunshot. The way he fell. The way the blood spread, unstoppable, endless.

Even when the officers burst into the room and pull you out, you’re still there. You’re still under the desk, your knees pressed to your chest, drowning in the sight and smell and sound of it all.

And you know you always will be.

Therapy Session: Phoebe’s Mother (40s)

Phoebe’s mother sat on the couch, her body rigid and trembling as she clutched a crumpled tissue in her hand. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed and glassy, as though she hadn’t slept in days. She stared at Dr. Franklin with an expression of hollow exhaustion, her lips trembling every time she tried to speak.

“She was just a kid,” she finally said, her voice breaking. “She was only fourteen. She didn’t—she didn’t even have a chance.”

Dr. Franklin nodded, his expression calm but full of empathy. “You’ve been through an unimaginable loss. It’s okay to take your time.”

Phoebe’s mother let out a bitter, humorless laugh that quickly turned into a sob. “Time? Time for what? To keep waking up every morning and remembering that she’s gone? To keep…to keep seeing her face every time I close my eyes?” She pressed the tissue to her mouth, her whole body trembling. “They told me what happened. How she…how she…”

Her voice faltered, and she looked down, shaking her head as though trying to physically dispel the image. “They said she was trying to run. That she begged him to let her go.” She choked on the words, her breathing ragged. “She was so scared of everything—spiders, storms, even getting a B on her math tests. And in the end, she was the bravest person in the room. But it didn’t matter.”

Dr. Franklin waited a beat before speaking. “What do you mean by ‘bravest’?”

Phoebe’s mother gave another hollow laugh, tears spilling down her cheeks. “She tried. She begged. She pleaded with that…that monster. She was still trying to live, still trying to get out of there, even when she knew…” Her voice broke completely, and she buried her face in her hands. “Even when she knew there was no way out.”

Flashback: Phoebe’s Perspective

The hallway is chaos.

Your heart pounds so hard it feels like it might shatter your ribs. Your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, each one burning your throat as you sprint, your sneakers squeaking against the polished tile. The gunfire echoes around you, deafening, each sharp crack slicing through the air like a knife. Every shot feels like it’s aimed directly at you, even as you run, even as you tell yourself to keep going.

Run. Just run.

You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t have a plan, just a single thought looping through your mind: get away. Your backpack slams against your back, the straps cutting into your shoulders, but the pain doesn’t register. Your body is on autopilot, driven by terror so thick it makes your legs feel like they might give out.

You turn the corner and see the door to the girls’ restroom. Safety. It might be safe.

You don’t think. You just bolt for it, slipping slightly as your shoes skid on the tile. You slam into the door, your shoulder jolting painfully from the impact, and stumble inside.

The silence inside the restroom is jarring. The air smells faintly of disinfectant, sharp and sterile, and for a moment, you think you might be okay. Your back presses hard against the door as you try to catch your breath, your chest heaving, your lungs burning.

Then you hear it.

Footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, and getting closer.

Your stomach drops, a cold wave of dread washing over you. He’s coming.

Your hands shake uncontrollably as you turn toward the small window at the far end of the restroom. It’s too small. You know it’s too small. But you have to try. You have to.

“Come on,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Come on, come on, come on…”

The door explodes open behind you.

You scream, spinning around to face him. He’s there, standing in the doorway like a shadow made real. The gun is raised, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights. His face is blank, emotionless, like he isn’t even human.

“Please,” you beg, your voice breaking, your words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “Please, don’t. I’ll do anything. Please, just don’t. Don’t kill me.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even blink. He steps forward, his boots clicking against the tile, each step louder than the last. You back away, your hands raised in front of you like they can shield you from what’s coming.

“I don’t want to die,” you whisper, tears blurring your vision. “Please. Please…”

The first shot hits you in the stomach.

The pain is instant and consuming. It feels like fire, like a hot blade twisting deep inside you. Your legs buckle, and you collapse to the floor, your hands instinctively clutching at the wound. Blood pours out, thick and warm, soaking through your fingers. Your breath comes in shallow, panicked gasps as the world tilts around you.

“No,” you whimper, barely able to get the word out. “No, no, no…”

His boots stop right in front of you. You force yourself to look up, your vision swimming as you meet his cold, detached gaze. You try to speak, try to beg one more time, but the second shot comes before you can.

It hits you in the chest.

The force knocks you backward, your body jerking violently before you collapse against the cold tile. The pain is everywhere, a searing, unbearable agony that fades too quickly into numbness. Blood bubbles up in your throat, spilling over your lips as you choke on it, the metallic taste sharp and sickening.

You feel it before you see it—eyes watching you.

Through the crack of a stall door, you see them. Two faces. Annie. Ian. They’re huddled together, their eyes wide, their faces streaked with tears. They’re staring at you, frozen in terror, and you know they’ve seen everything.

You try to speak, to tell them to run, but your body won’t respond. Your mouth moves, but no sound comes out. The blood pooling beneath you feels warm, sticky, like it’s pulling you down into it.

The shooter turns and walks away, his boots echoing against the tile. The door swings shut behind him, leaving the restroom silent once more.

You’re alone now. Your gaze drifts to the window, the sunlight streaming through it soft and distant, like it’s from another world. Your chest heaves weakly, each breath harder to take than the last.

The sirens are faint in the distance, too far away to matter. You stare at the ceiling, your tears mixing with the blood staining your cheeks, and you wonder how it came to this.

But the thought fades. Everything fades. The pain, the fear, the light—they all slip away, leaving nothing.

Therapy Session: Principal Dudley’s Wife (55)

Mrs. Dudley sat stiffly in the chair, her hands clutching a tissue that had been crumpled and smoothed out so many times it barely resembled paper anymore. Her face was pale and drawn, her eyes hollowed with grief, though she carried herself with the rigid composure of someone who refused to break in front of others.

“I told him not to go,” she said finally, her voice trembling but firm. “I told him he wasn’t a hero. But Jim…Jim never listened when it came to his students.”

Dr. Franklin nodded, keeping his voice soft. “You feel like he could’ve stayed safe.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she gave a bitter laugh that quickly turned into a sob. “Of course he could’ve stayed safe! He was in his office! The door was locked! He didn’t have to go out there, but he did.” She paused, her throat tightening. “He always put those kids first. Always. And now he’s gone.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother wiping them away. “Do you know what’s the worst part?” she said, her voice cracking. “The worst part is I’m proud of him. Even now, I’m proud. He didn’t just sit there. He did something. And I hate him for it.”

Franklin’s expression remained steady, but his heart ached for her. “You hate that he risked himself.”

“I hate that he left me,” she snapped, her voice raw. “I hate that he thought his life wasn’t worth as much as theirs. I hate that he died alone, on that cold hallway floor, while I was at home wondering what I was going to make for dinner.” Her voice broke, and she pressed her hands to her face, her sobs muffled. “I hate that he’s gone.”

Flashback: Principal Dudley’s Perspective

The first gunshot punches through the quiet like a hammer against glass, shattering the fragile peace of the day. You jerk upright at your desk, the sound so sharp, so alien, that your brain struggles to process it. For half a second, you tell yourself it’s nothing—just something innocuous, a prank maybe, a slammed locker.

But then comes the second shot.

It’s louder. Closer. And this time, it’s followed by screaming. Blood-curdling, desperate screaming that claws its way into your chest and squeezes your heart.

You stand before you even realize you’re moving, your chair scraping harshly against the floor. Your pulse thunders in your ears as you stride toward the door, forcing calm into your voice even though panic grips your throat like a vice.

“Kate,” you bark, your voice sharper than you intended. “Lock the door. Now.”

The girl freezes, her wide eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, she doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, her small frame trembling with fear.

“Now, Kate!” you repeat, louder this time.

She snaps into action, her hands fumbling as she twists the lock. Her breaths are fast and shallow, almost hyperventilating. You motion her toward the desk, your mind racing as you try to formulate a plan.

“Get under there,” you say firmly, pointing to the space beneath your desk. “Stay quiet, and don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe. Do you understand me?”

She hesitates, her face pale and tear-streaked, but finally nods and crawls under the desk. Her knees pull to her chest, her small hands clutching the straps of her backpack like a lifeline.

“You’ll be okay,” you say, crouching slightly to meet her eyes. Your voice softens, even as terror churns in your gut. “I promise.”

You straighten, turning back to the door. You know what you have to do. There are hundreds of kids out there, dozens of teachers, all of them looking to you for answers, for protection. You’re the principal. This is your school.

And right now, it’s your responsibility to save them.

The hallway is a war zone.

Papers litter the floor, backpacks abandoned in mid-flight. Chairs and desks are overturned, some of them streaked with blood. The screaming is everywhere—high-pitched, desperate, gut-wrenching—and it’s punctuated by the rapid, staccato crack of gunfire.

You force yourself to move, every instinct screaming at you to turn back, to run, to hide. Your shoes squeak against the tile as you head for the alarm panel. It’s your only priority now. Alert the authorities. Get help.

Your fingers fumble with the code, trembling so badly it takes you two tries to get it right. When the alarm blares to life, its piercing shriek fills the hallway, cutting through the chaos like a knife. Relief floods your chest. Help is on the way.

But it’s already too late for you.

You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, deliberate, each one echoing like a countdown. You turn, and there he is.

The shooter.

He’s younger than you expected. His face is blank, almost eerily calm, his eyes cold and detached as they lock onto you. The gun in his hands looks surreal, like a prop in a movie, until he raises it and points it directly at you.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice steady despite the terror clawing at your chest. “We can figure this out. We can talk. Whatever you’re going through, we can fix it.”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering your words. For a split second, hope flickers in your chest.

Then he fires.

The first shot slams into your chest, and the world tilts on its axis. The impact is like being hit by a sledgehammer, the pain radiating out in sharp, searing waves. Your legs buckle, and you collapse backward, your head hitting the cold, hard tile.

You gasp, your lungs struggling to draw in air. Blood spills from the wound, hot and thick, soaking into your shirt and pooling beneath you. Your hands fly to your chest, trying desperately to stop the flow, but it’s no use. The blood slips through your fingers, unstoppable, unstoppable.

The shooter steps closer, his boots clicking against the floor. You stare up at him, your vision blurring as the edges of your world begin to dim. You want to say something—to beg, to plead, to scream—but your voice is gone, swallowed by the agony and the blood filling your throat.

He stands over you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turns and walks away, his silhouette growing smaller as the darkness closes in around you.

Your head lolls to the side, your gaze catching on the door to your office. Kate. She’s still in there. Still hiding under the desk, waiting for you to tell her it’s safe.

Stay quiet, you think, the words echoing in your mind even as your lips refuse to form them. Stay safe.

Your vision narrows, the world fading to black. The last thing you see is the ceiling, the fluorescent lights blinding and cold. And then there’s nothing. No light. No sound. Just silence.

Therapy Session: Kevin McDonnell (41)

Kevin McDonnell sat in the chair like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. His shoulders slumped forward, his hands clasped tightly together, the calluses and veins on his fingers standing out against his pale skin. His face was ashen, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, his jaw clenched so tightly it seemed as though it might shatter if he tried to speak.

But when he did, his voice was quiet, raw, and heavy with guilt. “I’m supposed to keep them safe. That’s my job. And I couldn’t do a goddamn thing.”

Dr. Franklin nodded, keeping his tone even. “What happened wasn’t your fault, Kevin.”

Kevin’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with anger. “How the hell isn’t it my fault? I was right there! I could hear them—screaming, begging, dying—and I was fucking locked out.” His voice cracked, and he exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. “The one time it actually mattered, the one time I could’ve made a difference, and I was stuck outside like some useless piece of shit.”

“You couldn’t have known this was going to happen,” Franklin said gently.

“I should’ve known,” Kevin interrupted, his voice shaking. “I’ve been in this job long enough to know things can go sideways. I should’ve had a way in, a plan, something. Instead, I just…stood there.”

His hands curled into fists, trembling with rage and frustration. “I watched those kids climbing out of windows, bleeding, crying, and I couldn’t even get inside to help them. I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t…” His voice broke completely, and he bowed his head, his breath shuddering. “I couldn’t save them.”

“You did what you could,” Franklin said, his voice steady. “You helped the students who got out. You gave them someone to turn to.”

Kevin let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I helped the ones who were already running. The ones who didn’t need me. But the ones inside…Christ, I can still hear it. The gunshots. The screams. It’s like they’re stuck on a loop in my head, and no matter what I do, I can’t turn it off.”

He swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he stared at the floor. “I keep thinking, what if it was my kid in there? What if it was my little girl screaming for her life while some useless asshole stood outside, doing nothing? What kind of father am I if I couldn’t save them? What kind of man?”

Flashback: Kevin’s Perspective

The day starts like any other. You stand near the main entrance, your radio clipped to your belt, your eyes scanning the parking lot. Students spill out of cars, their laughter and chatter blending with the faint hum of morning activity. You nod at parents sipping coffee behind the wheel, offering small waves as they pull away. It’s normal. Routine. The kind of day you’ve lived a hundred times over.

Then comes the first gunshot.

It cuts through the air like a blade, muffled but sharp, and your head jerks toward the building. For a second, you think it’s your imagination—some part of your brain refusing to register the sound. But then it happens again. Louder. Closer.

A scream follows. Piercing. Raw.

Your heart lurches, and your body kicks into motion. You grab the door handle, yanking hard, but it doesn’t budge. Locked. The security system has engaged, sealing the building as the alarms blare to life.

“Shit,” you mutter, slamming your shoulder into the glass. It rattles but holds firm. Another gunshot echoes from within, and a cold, hollow fear blooms in your chest.

Your hand flies to your radio. “Active shooter!” you bark into the receiver, your voice shaking. “Shots fired inside. I’m locked out. Send backup—now!”

The radio crackles with static, someone confirming your call, but the words barely register. Your eyes are locked on the windows, your ears straining to hear through the layers of glass and chaos.

And then you see them.

Faces appear at the first-floor windows—pale, wide-eyed, drenched in terror. A student climbs onto the sill, his movements frantic and clumsy. He drops to the ground, landing hard, and stumbles forward, blood soaking the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

“Over here!” you shout, rushing toward him. “I’ve got you!”

The boy collapses into your arms, his whole body trembling. “He’s…he’s still in there,” he gasps, his voice hoarse and broken. “He’s killing them. Everyone.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you force yourself to focus. “You’re okay,” you say, guiding him toward the parking lot. “Go. Run. Don’t stop until you’re safe.”

More students follow. One by one, they crawl through the windows, their faces streaked with tears, their limbs shaking as they drop to the ground. You wave them toward you, shouting instructions, your voice rising above the chaos.

“Keep moving! You’re safe now! Run!”

But are they? Are they really safe?

Another gunshot rips through the air, this one so loud it feels like it’s right beside you. You flinch, your stomach twisting into knots as the faint sound of screams reaches your ears. Desperate. Agonizing.

You turn back to the building, your fists clenching as you press your face against the glass. The hallway inside is empty, a stark, fluorescent-lit void that feels impossibly far away.

“Let me in,” you whisper, your breath fogging the glass. “Please.”

The screams grow louder. Someone begs for their life, the words muffled but unmistakable. You slam your fists against the door, the impact jarring your arms. “Goddammit!” you shout, your voice breaking. “Let me in!”

But the door doesn’t budge. It stands firm, a cold, unyielding barrier between you and the horror unfolding inside.

A girl appears at the window, her face streaked with blood. She’s shaking so hard she can barely climb out, her knees giving way as she lands on the ground. You rush to her, pulling her up, your hands trembling as you guide her toward safety.

“You’re okay,” you murmur, though you don’t believe it. “Just keep going.”

Behind her, another shot rings out, and your stomach drops. You turn back to the building, pressing your forehead against the glass as tears blur your vision.

You can’t see what’s happening, but you can hear it. The gunfire. The screams. The silence that follows.

And you’re powerless.

Helpless.

All you can do is stand there, fists against the glass, and watch as the nightmare unfolds just out of reach.

Therapy Session: Mr. Harrison (28)

Mr. Harrison sat hunched forward in the chair, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly together. His normally neat appearance was disheveled—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, eyes bloodshot and shadowed. He didn’t look at Dr. Franklin but instead stared at a spot on the floor, his lips pressed into a hard line.

“They keep calling me a hero,” he said finally, his voice low and hoarse. “The kids, the parents, the school board. Even my own family. ‘You saved them,’ they say. ‘You did everything right.’” His hands trembled as he rubbed them together. “But it doesn’t feel like I saved anyone. Not really.”

Dr. Franklin nodded gently. “Why doesn’t it feel that way?”

Harrison’s head shot up, his eyes hollow and red-rimmed. “Because I couldn’t save all of them,” he said, his voice cracking. “Because no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough. Mary was bleeding out right in front of me, and I thought…I thought she was going to die. And the others—the ones I couldn’t protect…” He trailed off, his jaw clenching tightly. “How am I supposed to live with that?”

“You were in an impossible situation,” Franklin said softly. “You did everything you could to keep your students safe.”

“Did I?” Harrison snapped, his voice rising. “I froze, okay? When the first shot went off, I just stood there like an idiot, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. Mary was the one who woke me up, bleeding and crying for help, and even then, I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I didn’t feel like a teacher or a leader or whatever the hell I’m supposed to be. I felt…useless.”

“You weren’t useless,” Franklin said firmly. “You saved lives.”

Harrison shook his head, his voice breaking. “But not all of them. Not all of them.”

Flashback: Mr. Harrison’s Perspective

The classroom hums with the chaos of teenagers. Voices overlap, chairs scrape against the floor, and laughter ripples through the air as you write out the day’s algebra problems on the whiteboard. The marker squeaks faintly, a sound so normal it fades into the background.

Then you hear it.

The first gunshot is distant, muffled, almost indistinguishable from the everyday clatter of school life. You freeze, the marker slipping from your hand, hitting the floor with a hollow clatter. For a split second, you convince yourself it’s nothing—a slammed locker, a prank—but the second shot is louder. Sharper.

And then the screaming starts.

Your heart lurches into your throat as you turn, scanning the faces of your students. They’re looking at you now, wide-eyed, their voices subdued but rising with fear. “What was that?” someone whispers, their voice trembling.

“Everyone, stay calm,” you say, but your voice isn’t calm. It’s shaking, barely controlled. You swallow hard, trying to gather yourself. “Stay in your seats.”

Another shot. This one feels like it’s just outside the door.

The room explodes into chaos. Students scramble from their desks, chairs toppling to the floor. Their panic is contagious, clawing at your chest, tightening your lungs. You raise your hands, trying to regain control. “Quiet! Everyone, quiet!”

The door bursts open.

Mary stumbles in, her face as pale as chalk, streaked with tears and blood. She’s clutching her shoulder, her fingers slick with crimson that’s soaking through her shirt. “Help,” she gasps, the word barely audible. “He’s…he’s coming…”

Your body moves before your brain can catch up. You rush toward her, catching her just as her legs give out. She’s trembling violently, her breaths shallow and ragged. “Oh my God,” you whisper, staring at the wound. Your hands hover uselessly for a moment before you press them over the bleeding. Her blood is hot, sticky, and it clings to your palms.

“It’s okay, Mary,” you say, but it’s not okay. None of this is okay. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

“Please,” she whispers, her tears carving tracks down her dirt-smeared face. “Don’t let me die.”

“You’re not going to die,” you say, forcing steel into your voice even as your hands shake. “I promise. You’re going to be fine.”

The sound of gunfire cuts through the hallway, louder, closer. Your stomach twists into a knot as you glance at the open door. The screams are high-pitched, raw, animalistic.

“Under the desks!” you shout, your voice breaking. “Now!”

The students move frantically, tripping over each other as they dive beneath their desks. Their sobs are muffled but still audible, each one like a dagger in your chest.

You drag Mary toward the corner, lowering her as gently as you can onto the cold tile. Her body jerks when you shift your grip, and she cries out in pain. “I know, I know,” you murmur, your voice trembling. “Just breathe. Keep breathing.”

Her eyes flutter closed.

“Mary!” you say sharply, panic flooding your chest. “Stay awake. Look at me. Stay with me.”

Her eyelids lift slowly, her gaze glassy, unfocused.

The doorknob rattles.

Your breath catches. The blood rushes in your ears as you turn toward the door, instinctively placing your body between it and Mary. The rattling grows louder, harder. You brace yourself against the desk, your knees threatening to buckle.

“Please,” someone whispers from beneath a desk. “Please don’t let him in.”

The rattling stops.

The silence is worse.

You don’t move. You don’t even breathe. Every muscle in your body is wound so tight it feels like you might snap. You stare at the door, waiting for it to burst open, for the shooter to step inside. For everything to end.

But it doesn’t.

The footsteps retreat, the sound swallowed by the distant chaos. You exhale shakily, your chest heaving as you turn back to Mary. She’s staring at you with wide, tear-filled eyes, her breaths coming in short, shallow bursts.

“You’re doing great,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “Just hold on a little longer.”

More gunfire erupts, followed by a heavy, agonized scream that makes your blood run cold. You adjust your grip on Mary’s wound, pressing harder despite the way she flinches.

The minutes stretch into eternity. Each second is a battle against the fear clawing at your chest, the helplessness threatening to overwhelm you. You think of the students under the desks, their tear-streaked faces buried in their arms. You think of the shooter, somewhere in the building, and how powerless you are to stop him.

The sound of sirens cuts through the air. Relief washes over you, but it’s fleeting.

When the police arrive, they escort the students out one by one. You stay with Mary until the paramedics arrive, refusing to let go of her hand even as they load her onto a stretcher.

And when the room is empty—when the students are gone, and the gunfire has stopped, and the silence has returned—you stay frozen in the corner, staring at the bloodstained floor and wondering if you could have done more.

Therapy Session: Mrs. Potter’s Husband (50)

Mr. Potter sat on the edge of the couch, his hands trembling as they clutched a photograph. It was a picture of his wife, smiling brightly in front of an easel, her hair pinned back and a paintbrush in hand. His thumb moved over the frame absently, as though he could smooth away the pain etched on her face in his memories.

“She loved those kids,” he said, his voice cracking. “She always said the art room was their escape. A place where they could be themselves, where nothing else mattered.” He paused, his throat tightening. “She died protecting them. That’s who she was.”

Dr. Franklin nodded, his voice gentle. “It sounds like she cared deeply for her students.”

“She did,” Mr. Potter said, his voice rising slightly. “She cared so much, and it got her killed. If she’d just run—if she’d just hidden—maybe…” He trailed off, his breath hitching. “But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t. That’s not who she was.”

His shoulders shook as he clutched the photo tighter, his tears falling freely now. “I keep thinking about what it must’ve been like. What she must’ve felt when he walked in there. Was she scared? Did she know she was going to die?” He wiped at his face roughly, his voice trembling with anguish. “I wasn’t there to help her. I wasn’t there to save her. She died alone, surrounded by kids who were just as terrified as she was.”

Dr. Franklin let the silence settle for a moment before speaking. “You couldn’t have known this would happen. You couldn’t have prevented it.”

“I should’ve been there,” Mr. Potter said fiercely, his voice breaking. “I should’ve been the one. Not her. Not those kids. Me.”

Flashback: Mrs. Potter’s Perspective

The art room is your sanctuary, a cocoon of creativity and calm in a world that often feels too loud. Brushes whisper against canvas, pencils scratch on paper, and your voice blends seamlessly with the sounds of your students’ work.

“That’s beautiful, Jenna,” you say, leaning over to examine the sunflower she’s painting. “The way you’ve blended those yellows—it’s perfect.”

Jenna’s face lights up, her cheeks flushing with pride, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels right. These moments are why you come here every day, why you stay late even when the exhaustion sets in. It’s for the kids. Always for the kids.

Then it happens.

The first shot rips through the quiet, distant but unmistakable.

You freeze mid-step, the smile on your face vanishing as the sound registers. It’s loud, sharp—something primal in you knows what it is even if your brain won’t accept it. You stand there, your body stiff, your breath catching in your throat as the second shot follows, closer this time.

“What was that?” a boy asks, his voice barely audible, trembling.

You don’t answer. Your heart is pounding too loudly in your ears, drowning out the murmurs of confusion around you. “Stay in your seats,” you finally manage, your voice unsteady.

But then the screams begin.

They echo down the hallway, high-pitched, raw, visceral. The kind of screams that only exist in nightmares. Your chest tightens as dread washes over you, cold and suffocating. You force yourself to move, to act, to protect them.

“Under the tables!” you shout, your voice firm now, rising above the panic. “Everyone, under the tables, now!”

The students scramble, chairs scraping against the floor as they dive for cover. Some are crying already, their hands trembling as they clutch each other. You move toward the door, your only thought to lock it, to keep them safe.

But you don’t make it.

The door slams open with a deafening crash, the force of it reverberating through the room. You turn, and he’s there.

The shooter.

He stands in the doorway, a dark figure with a gun raised and a face devoid of anything resembling humanity.

“Please,” you say, your voice trembling, cracking. “You don’t have to do this.”

But the words mean nothing to him.

The first shot hits you in the chest.

The impact is like being struck by a sledgehammer. Your breath is knocked from your lungs, your legs give out, and you stumble backward, clutching at the sudden, hot pain spreading across your chest. Your blouse darkens with blood, and the metallic scent fills your nose.

“Run!” you scream, or try to scream. The word comes out choked, wet, barely audible. “Get out—”

The second shot silences you.

It tears into your stomach, the pain a white-hot explosion that spreads through your body like fire. Your knees buckle, and you collapse to the floor, the cold tile pressing against your cheek as your blood pools beneath you.

You hear them screaming—your students—high-pitched, panicked, animalistic. The sound cuts through you more than the bullets ever could.

You lift your head, your vision swimming, and you see him step further into the room. He doesn’t hesitate. He moves with methodical precision, lowering the gun to fire beneath the tables where your students are hiding.

The screams grow louder. Then shorter. Then stop.

Your body feels heavy, your limbs like lead. Every breath you take is a struggle, each one shallower than the last. Blood bubbles in your throat, spilling from your lips.

Through the haze, you see him—a boy crawling toward you, his face streaked with tears, his hands slick with blood.

“Mrs. Potter,” he whispers, his voice trembling, broken. “Help me…”

You want to reach for him. You want to tell him it’s going to be okay, even if it’s a lie. But your arms won’t move. Your voice is gone. All you can do is watch as the shooter’s boots step into view behind him.

One final shot.

The boy collapses, lifeless, inches from your outstretched hand.

The world around you begins to dim. The screams are gone now, replaced by a suffocating silence. The metallic scent of blood mixes with the faint smell of turpentine from the paint supplies.

Your thoughts drift to your husband. His laugh, his warmth, the way he kissed your forehead every morning before you left for school. You had told him to paint more, to find his passion. You hope he does.

Your vision fades completely. The last thing you hear is the distant wail of sirens. Too late. Far too late.

Therapy Session: Ms. Schuster (23)

Ms. Schuster sat on the edge of the couch, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though she were holding her body together. Her hair, usually neatly tied back, fell loose and disheveled around her pale face. Her wide, bloodshot eyes darted to the door every few seconds, her breaths shallow and rapid, as though she were ready to bolt at any moment.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she muttered, barely audible. “I’m not a kid. This isn’t about me.”

Dr. Franklin leaned forward slightly, his voice calm and even. “You were there, Ms. Schuster. You went through something unimaginable. It’s okay to feel the way you’re feeling.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her eyes welling with tears. “Feel? I feel… I don’t even know what I feel anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t go into a classroom without thinking—without knowing—that it’s going to happen again.”

Her voice rose as her breathing quickened, her body trembling. “Every time I hear a loud noise, I’m back in that room. I’m back behind that desk, with that gun—those bullets—” She choked on the words, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t…I can’t do this.”

Dr. Franklin waited for her to breathe, to compose herself, before gently asking, “What do you remember most vividly?”

Her hands dropped, and she looked at him, her face stricken. “The door. The way the door shook when he—” Her voice cracked. “The way the door shook when he was trying to get in. And the closet. God, the closet…”

“What about the closet?”

She shook her head violently, her tears spilling freely now. “I thought we were going to die. I was sure of it. I held that kid’s hand, and I told her it was going to be okay, but I knew we were about to die. I could hear him breathing, right on the other side of the wall.”

Her voice broke completely, and she buried her face in her hands. “I hear it every night. I see it every time I close my eyes. And it doesn’t stop. It doesn’t fucking stop.”

Flashback: Ms. Schuster’s Perspective

The art supplies in the corner feel oddly comforting, their smell faint but familiar. You’ve been teaching for less than a year, and every day feels like a balance beam between control and chaos. But today feels good. The hum of students collaborating on group projects fills the room, and the gentle scratch of pencils against paper reminds you why you love this.

Then you hear it.

The first gunshot cracks through the air like a branch snapping under pressure, distant but distinct. Your hand stills mid-note, the pen hovering over a stack of ungraded papers. You glance toward the door instinctively, your brain scrambling to rationalize the sound.

The second shot is louder.

“What was that?” a boy asks, his voice already laced with fear.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stand. “It’s nothing,” you say, trying to sound calm. “Just stay in your seats.”

But then comes the scream—a shrill, gut-wrenching sound that pierces your chest like a blade. Your calm shatters instantly. You move toward the door, already locking it before you consciously make the decision.

“Under the desks,” you say, your voice trembling now, rising. “Everyone, under the desks. Quickly!”

They move, but not fast enough. Panic swells like a wave, the scrape of chairs against tile competing with their frantic breaths and muffled cries. Your hands shake as you shove the nearest desk against the door, motioning to a group of students. “Help me,” you urge, trying to keep your voice steady. “Barricade it. Now!”

The gunfire is closer, each shot louder and more precise. Every crack echoes in your skull.

One desk. Two desks. Chairs. You pile them against the door as fast as you can, your chest heaving, adrenaline flooding your veins.

“Ms. Schuster,” a girl whispers from beneath her desk, her eyes wide with terror. “What’s happening?”

You glance at her, trying to summon some semblance of reassurance. “It’s going to be okay,” you lie, your voice breaking. “Just stay quiet. Don’t move.”

The hallway falls silent.

For a moment, the stillness is worse than the chaos. It’s a suffocating, oppressive silence, stretching endlessly. Your breathing feels too loud. Every movement, every whimper from your students feels like a scream.

And then, the footsteps.

They’re slow and deliberate, heavy boots pounding against the tile, growing louder with each step. You press yourself against the barricade, your heart racing so fast you think it might burst.

The doorknob rattles.

You freeze. Every muscle in your body tenses as the knob jiggles again, harder this time. You glance at the students under their desks, their faces pale and tear-streaked. One girl has her hands pressed over her ears, rocking back and forth, her mouth moving soundlessly.

The pounding starts next—violent, sharp thuds that make the desks shake. You bite down on your lip, your mind screaming at you to do something, anything, but you can’t move. You can only listen as the pounding grows louder, more relentless.

“Open the door!” the shooter yells, his voice muffled but unmistakably angry.

The students whimper, their fear palpable, filling the room like a tangible force.

Then the gunfire.

The door splinters under the barrage, wooden shards flying through the air like shrapnel. You flinch as a piece grazes your cheek, the sting barely registering over the deafening noise.

“Move!” you hiss, grabbing the nearest girl and dragging her toward the supply closet. “Come on!”

The closet is cramped and dark, the air stifling as you shove her inside. “Stay quiet,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “Don’t make a sound.”

The shooter steps into the classroom. You can hear him now, the heavy crunch of glass and debris under his boots, the quiet muttering under his breath.

You clamp a hand over the girl’s mouth as she starts to sob, her tears soaking your palm. You press your body against hers, shielding her as best you can, your own breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

The footsteps are closer now, circling the room. He’s searching.

You hear a boy whimper. A desk creaks as he shifts, trying to make himself smaller.

“Found you,” the shooter says, his voice almost mocking.

The gunshot is deafening, the scream even worse.

You press your hand tighter against the girl’s mouth, tears streaming down your face as the sounds of your students dying seep through the thin walls of the closet.

The footsteps stop outside the closet door.

You can hear his breathing now—calm, steady, terrifyingly deliberate. The doorknob jiggles.

You squeeze your eyes shut, biting down on your lip until you taste blood. This is it. He’s going to open the door, and there’s nothing you can do.

The knob jiggles again, harder this time, and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

But then, shouting. Gunfire outside. The shooter curses, his footsteps retreating as the sound of sirens grows louder.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You stay pressed against the girl, your body trembling violently, until the closet door bursts open and a SWAT officer kneels in front of you.

“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice steady.

But you’re not safe.

You’ll never be safe again.

Therapy Session: Sergeant Tate (37)

Sergeant Tate sat heavily in the chair, his posture stiff and his face weathered. His hands rested on his knees, calloused and trembling slightly as he struggled to keep his composure. He looked down at the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked as if it might crack under the strain.

“It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen,” he said finally, his voice hoarse and low. “And I’ve seen a lot. I’ve been to crime scenes, car wrecks, domestic calls that went sideways. But this…this was different. This was hell.”

Dr. Franklin leaned forward, keeping his tone calm. “Tell me what you remember.”

Tate exhaled shakily, his hands flexing on his knees. “The screams hit me first. We could hear them before we even made it inside. And then…the blood. It was everywhere. In the hallways, on the walls, pooling under the doors. Kids running out of the building, some of them bleeding, some of them covered in…in someone else’s blood.” His voice cracked, and he shook his head. “I couldn’t save them all. No matter how fast we moved, no matter what we did, there was always someone we were too late for.”

“You did everything you could,” Franklin said gently. “You saved lives.”

Tate scoffed, his voice bitter. “Tell that to the parents burying their kids this week. Tell that to the kids who’ll never unsee what they saw in those classrooms.” He rubbed a hand over his face, his jaw tightening. “And the shooter… God help me, I wanted him dead.”

Franklin paused before speaking. “You’re angry.”

“Damn right I’m angry,” Tate said sharply, his voice rising. “I walked into that building and saw bodies everywhere—kids, teachers, people who were just trying to survive—and there he was, standing there with a gun like he owned the place. And when Mackey dropped him, all I felt was relief. No guilt, no hesitation. Just relief.”

Flashback: Sergeant Tate’s Perspective

The sirens scream through the air, drilling into your head as you sprint toward the school. Each step pounds in time with your heartbeat, loud and relentless in your ears. Your radio crackles, a voice breaking through the static with an update you don’t want to hear.

“SWAT breaching east wing. Suspect still active. Multiple casualties.”

You tighten your grip on your weapon, pushing the rising dread to the back of your mind. You don’t have time to process it. Not yet.

The first thing you see when you reach the entrance is blood—smears on the walls, splatters on the glass doors, and a dark, sticky pool near the threshold. You step over it, your boots leaving faint prints as you move inside. The air is thick with the metallic tang of it, clinging to the back of your throat like a sickness.

A group of students bursts out of a nearby hallway, their faces pale and twisted in terror. They’re covered in dust, some in blood, and their screams are high-pitched, animalistic.

“Over here!” you shout, waving them toward the exit. “Go! Don’t look back!”

One of them stumbles, her knees buckling as she collapses near your feet. She’s clutching her arm, blood seeping between her fingers. You drop to one knee, your voice steady despite the chaos. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”

But you’re lying. You don’t know if she’ll be okay. You don’t know if anyone will be.

You help her to her feet, passing her off to another officer before stepping deeper into the building. The sound of gunfire cracks through the air, loud and sharp, echoing off the walls. Each shot is a gut punch, a reminder that you’re already too late for some of them.

The first body you see is a boy—maybe twelve, maybe thirteen. His backpack is still strapped to his shoulders, his legs splayed awkwardly as if he tripped on his way to the ground. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, and his chest is soaked in red.

You step over him, your breath hitching as you force yourself not to look too closely. There will be time to grieve later, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

The hallway ahead is littered with chaos. Desks and chairs overturned, backpacks discarded, papers scattered like confetti at the scene of a massacre. You spot another body—a teacher this time, her blouse soaked with blood, her mouth slightly open as if she was mid-sentence when the bullet hit her.

Your stomach churns, but you keep moving.

“Where’s the fucking  shooter?” you bark into your radio, your voice sharper than intended.

“Second-floor science wing,” the reply comes. “He’s pinned down. Still firing.”

You reach the staircase just as SWAT moves in, their tactical gear dark and imposing against the fluorescent lights. You fall in line behind them, your weapon raised, your eyes scanning every corner, every shadow.

The science hallway is worse. The stench of blood is overpowering, mingling with the acrid smell of gunpowder. The walls are riddled with bullet holes, and shattered glass crunches under your boots.

And then you see him.

The shooter stands at the far end of the hallway, his back against the wall, his gun still raised. He’s a teenager—just a kid, really—but his expression is devoid of anything human. No fear. No anger. Just a blank, detached calm, as if this is nothing more than a chore he’s been forced to complete.

You take aim, your finger trembling on the trigger.

“Mackey,” you say, your voice low and urgent. “Take the fucking shot.”

But Mackey hesitates, his breath hitching as he stares down his sights.

“Now!” you yell, the sound ripping through your throat.

The gunfire is deafening, and for a moment, you’re not sure who fired first. You watch as the shooter’s body jerks backward, the force of the bullets slamming him into the wall. His gun clatters to the floor, and he crumples beside it, his blank expression never changing.

The hallway falls silent, except for the faint whimpering of a student hidden beneath a nearby desk. You lower your weapon, your chest heaving as the adrenaline drains out of you, leaving nothing but exhaustion and the crushing weight of what you’ve just witnessed.

The shooter is dead.

But the screams, the blood, the bodies—they’ll stay with you forever.

Therapy Session: Officer Mackey (26)

Officer Mackey sat rigidly in the chair, his eyes fixed on a spot just over Dr. Franklin’s shoulder. His jaw twitched, his fingers gripping the armrests so tightly his knuckles turned white. He hadn’t spoken since he sat down.

Dr. Franklin waited patiently before speaking. “It’s not easy to take a life, even when it’s justified.”

Mackey flinched, his jaw tightening further. “It wasn’t just a life,” he said finally, his voice low and strained. “It was… It was him.”

“You’re talking about the shooter.”

“Yeah,” Mackey said bitterly. “The piece of shit who gunned down kids and teachers like it was nothing. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even try to run. He just stood there, looking at us, daring us to stop him.”

“What happened next?”

Mackey’s shoulders tensed, his breath hitching. “He raised the gun. He pointed it at us, like he thought we wouldn’t do it. Like he thought he was untouchable. I told him to drop it. I gave him the chance.”

“And then?”

Mackey’s eyes met Franklin’s, raw and haunted. “I pulled the fucking trigger.”

Flashback: Officer Mackey’s Perspective

The gunfire had stopped, but the echoes still clung to the air like a ghost. The hallway was a battlefield—blood splattered the walls in dark streaks, pooling beneath motionless bodies. Shattered glass crunched beneath your boots as you advanced, every nerve in your body taut.

The shooter stood at the far end of the hall, his back pressed to the wall, his gun hanging loose in his hand. He was young—too young for the carnage he’d unleashed—but there was no innocence in his eyes. They were dead, hollow, reflecting none of the horrors he’d created.

“Drop your weapon!” you bellow, your voice cracking through the oppressive silence. “Drop it now!”

He doesn’t move. His lips twitch into a faint smirk, the kind that sends a shiver up your spine. Slowly, methodically, he raises the gun.

“Take the fucking shot!” you bark at Mackey, your voice raw.

Mackey hesitates, his finger trembling on the trigger. You can feel the tension rolling off him, the hesitation thick in the air.

“Do it!” you shout, and finally, he fires.

The first shot hits the shooter in the shoulder. His body jerks violently, spinning him sideways, but he doesn’t drop the weapon. Blood pours down his arm, staining the floor as he stumbles back against the wall.

Then he raises the gun again.

Mackey fires twice more, the bullets slamming into the shooter’s chest with a sickening thud. He collapses to his knees, gasping for air, blood bubbling from his mouth as his chest heaves.

But he’s still reaching for his gun.

You step forward, your own weapon drawn, your breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. “Don’t fucking move!” you roar, but he doesn’t listen. His fingers brush the grip of the gun, slick with blood, and you don’t wait.

The next shot takes half his face.

The sound is deafening, the recoil sending a jolt up your arm. Blood and bone explode against the wall behind him, a grotesque mosaic of crimson and gray. His body slumps forward, collapsing in a heap on the floor. The gun slips from his hand, skidding across the tile.

You lower your weapon, your chest heaving as you stare at the scene before you. The shooter’s head is barely recognizable, the exit wound obliterating the back of his skull. Blood pools around his shattered face, spreading slowly, seeping into the cracks of the floor.

Mackey stands beside you, his hands trembling as he lowers his weapon. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, his voice hollow.

You glance at him, your mouth dry. “It’s done,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

But it isn’t.

The hallway is silent now, but the screams still echo in your mind. The blood, the bodies, the mangled remains of children and teachers alike—it’s all burned into your vision, a horror you know you’ll never escape.

You step over the shooter’s lifeless body, your boots slipping slightly on the blood-slicked tile. The stench of iron and gunpowder clings to you, filling your lungs with every breath.

It’s over.

But it’s never over.

Franklin’s Notes: Summary of the Aftermath

The tragedy at Rocky Run Middle School left a wound that stretched far beyond the school walls, its ripples of devastation reaching students, teachers, responders, and their families. Each person Franklin met carried a unique burden, yet all shared a profound sense of irreparable loss. His notes reflected the overwhelming complexity of human grief, trauma, and the shared struggle to make sense of a senseless act.

For the children, the classroom—a space once filled with routine and safety—had transformed into a source of terror. Several were unable to step into a school without trembling or breaking down, their memories hijacked by the sights and sounds of that day. Franklin noted recurring themes of survivor’s guilt. One child had sobbed, asking over and over, “Why wasn’t it me? Why did they die instead of me?” Another couldn’t escape the echo of their friend’s final scream, replaying in their mind like a broken record. These were not moments the children lived through—they were moments they were now trapped in.

The teachers, too, were haunted by the day. Many were caught in a loop of self-blame, agonizing over what they might have done differently. One described their failure to “save more” as a weight they carried in their chest, suffocating them. Another spoke of nightmares where they relived the moment they locked their door, knowing others outside were left vulnerable. Franklin noted how the faculty had become fractured versions of themselves, each tethered to that day’s horrors in ways they could neither articulate nor escape.

For the first responders, Franklin observed the heavy toll of bearing witness to the aftermath. One officer, who had found his own child among the victims, was consumed by grief so deep that his sessions dissolved into anguished silence. Another confessed to replaying the moment they killed the shooter, a mix of relief and revulsion tearing at their conscience. The sights—the blood, the small bodies crumpled in impossible positions—had seared into their minds, a grotesque slideshow that surfaced unbidden in the quiet hours of the night.

Franklin noted that all survivors shared a sense of profound confusion. The randomness of survival, the brutality of the act, and the emptiness of the shooter’s gaze defied comprehension. One survivor described it as “trying to understand a nightmare with no ending.” Another said simply, “I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again.”

Systemic failures loomed over every story. Franklin saw the threads of neglect woven through the tragedy—a shooter who had fallen through the cracks of a broken mental health system, security measures that failed to prevent the unthinkable, a school culture ill-equipped to identify and address deep-seated anger and isolation. These failures were not abstractions; they were the source of endless “what-ifs” that haunted every conversation. What if someone had noticed the signs? What if the school had been better prepared? What if, what if, what if?

The survivors’ paths forward would not be uniform. Franklin concluded that some, especially the younger ones, might find healing in time and support. But for others, the trauma had dug in too deeply, its roots wrapping around their lives in ways that could never fully be untangled. They would carry the day with them—the sounds of gunfire, the screams, the smell of blood, the cold weight of terror—like shadows trailing them forever.

Franklin closed his notes with a reflection that felt more like a grim acknowledgment: this wasn’t the last time he would sit across from survivors of such violence. The system had failed these people, and it would fail others again. The scars would remain, not just on those who survived, but on a society that allowed this to keep happening. As long as systemic change remained elusive, the cycle would repeat, leaving Franklin and others to sift through the pieces, one shattered life at a time.

Yet, Franklin found his mind circling back to the one person whose story he would never hear—the shooter. What storm raged within them as they stepped out of their car, walked into that school, and unleashed devastation? Was it anger? Despair? A chilling detachment? He had seen the aftermath of their actions—the blood, the broken bodies, the fractured lives—but the moments leading up to it remained a void, a question mark too unbearable to confront. Did they hesitate? Did they feel anything as they pulled the trigger for the first time, or had they already surrendered whatever remained of their humanity to the darkness that consumed them?

Franklin didn’t want to understand. Not really. Yet a small, reluctant part of him couldn’t help but wonder: if we could see inside that darkness, if we could glimpse the exact moment when a person becomes capable of such horror…could we stop the next one?

Perspective: The Shooter

The November air cuts sharp against your face as you step out of the car, the weight of the duffel bag dragging on your shoulder. Around you, the morning routine unfolds, oblivious. Parents wave from their cars, coffee cups balanced on dashboards. Kids laugh, shove, and shout as they make their way toward the building, their lives undisturbed by the storm you’re bringing.

The bag feels heavier with each step across the asphalt, the strap biting into your hand like it’s trying to tether you back. The sound of gravel crunching under your boots merges with the distant hum of idle conversations and slamming car doors. Ahead, the glass doors of the school loom large, their polished surfaces reflecting the sun in sharp, blinding flashes. You reach out, fingers brushing cold metal, and pull.

The door swings open, and you step into the chaos of the morning rush. The hallway buzzes with life—students shouting, lockers slamming, teachers chatting in clusters. A group of boys wrestles near the vending machine, their laughter cutting through the din. A girl leans against her locker, flipping through her phone. A teacher walks past with a stack of papers, her head nodding to an unheard rhythm.

No one notices you.

They never notice you.

The duffel bag pulls heavier at your side as you weave through the crowd, your boots clicking against the polished floor. The fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, the sound barely audible over the noise. Principal Dudley stands near the main office, his coffee cup steaming as he chats with a girl who glances at you briefly. Her eyes flicker with fleeting curiosity before she turns back to the conversation.

Your grip tightens.

Ahead, the hallway stretches endlessly, the noise and chaos blurring together into a suffocating hum. You stop. You unzip the bag.

The rifle feels cold, solid in your hands, its weight anchoring you in the moment. You lift it slowly, deliberately. For the first time in weeks, your mind is quiet.

The first shot cracks through the air like a thunderclap.

A boy near the vending machine collapses, his body crumpling in slow motion as blood sprays across the glass. His friends scream, their laughter twisting into something high-pitched and raw. They scatter, their sneakers squeaking against the floor as they run.

You fire again.

A girl clutching her books stumbles, her back arching as the bullet tears through her chest. Her books hit the ground before she does, pages fluttering open like broken wings. Her hand reaches out, grasping for something that isn’t there.

The hallway erupts into chaos. Students scream, running in every direction, their faces contorted in terror. A teacher yells, her voice cracking as she tries to herd kids into a classroom. You aim at her next. The bullet catches her in the neck, and she collapses against the lockers, her blood smearing across the metal as she slides to the floor.

You move forward, your boots thudding against the tile. The morning rush has dissolved into a scene of carnage. Lockers hang open, their contents spilling out in disarray. A boy cowers behind a tipped-over trash can, his hands trembling as he clutches his knees to his chest. You raise the rifle.

His scream is brief.

You step past him, your eyes scanning for movement. A pair of teachers are huddled in the doorway to the principal’s office, their faces pale with terror. Principal Dudley stands in front of them, his arms raised in a futile attempt to shield them.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, his voice shaking but firm. “Please—”

You fire before he can finish.

The shot strikes him in the chest, and he staggers backward, his coffee cup shattering on the floor. Blood spreads across his shirt as he collapses, his hand reaching weakly toward the teachers behind him. One of them screams, the sound piercing and desperate. You aim again.

The next shot silences her.

The other teacher turns and runs, her shoes slipping on the blood-slick tile as she disappears down the hallway. You don’t follow. There’s no need.

You move toward the art room. The door is ajar, the faint sound of Mrs. Potter’s calm voice floating out. “That’s beautiful, Jenna,” she says, her words laced with warmth. The noise from the hallway hasn’t reached her yet.

You push the door open with your foot, stepping inside. The room stills.

Mrs. Potter turns toward you, her head tilting with polite confusion. “Can I help—”

The shot silences her.

Her body jerks backward, blood spraying across the table behind her. She stumbles, her hand clutching her chest as her legs give out. She collapses onto the floor, her breath hitching in a gurgling gasp before going still.

The students scream, their chairs scraping against the floor as they try to run. One boy grabs a paintbrush like a weapon, holding it out in trembling hands. You fire, the bullet tearing through his stomach. He crumples, knocking over a table as he falls.

A girl dives beneath a desk, her sobs audible over the chaos. You step closer, your boots slick with blood, and fire into the desk. Her body slumps against it, her head lolling to the side. Her sketchbook falls to the floor, the pages splattered red.

You step back into the hallway. It’s quieter now, the screams distant. Blood streaks the walls, handprints dragging across the lockers. A boy sprints past you, his breath ragged, tears streaming down his face. You aim.

He collapses mid-step, slamming into the lockers before crumpling to the ground. His glasses fall off, skidding across the tile.

The rifle clicks empty.

You pause, your hands moving instinctively to reload. The motion is smooth, practiced. The chaos around you feels distant, muted, as if you’re moving underwater.

And then you hear them.

Footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

You turn, your pulse quickening, and see them: the SWAT team, their weapons raised, their faces grim and focused. The lead officer shouts something, his voice muffled beneath the roaring in your ears.

You raise the rifle, your finger tightening on the trigger.

They don’t hesitate.

The first bullet hits your shoulder, spinning you sideways. Pain explodes through your arm, but you grip the rifle tighter. Another shot slams into your chest, the force knocking the air from your lungs. You stumble, blood spilling from your wounds, your vision blurring.

You hit the wall, your back sliding down as your legs give out. The rifle falls from your hands, clattering to the floor. You reach for it, your fingers brushing the barrel, but another shot tears through your wrist, shattering bone. The pain is blinding, consuming.

The final shot tears through your skull.

Everything stops.

The world dissolves into darkness, the sounds fading into nothingness. There is no pain, no fear, no noise.

Just silence.

The Aftermath

The aftermath of the Indigo Run Middle School shooting rippled through the nation, broadcast on every channel, dissected on every platform. The screen no longer showed the chaos of first responders or fleeing students, but instead images of candlelit vigils, devastated parents, and lawmakers locked in tense debates. The tragedy had evolved into a symbol, a flashpoint in the never-ending cycle of outrage, grief, and inaction.

On Fox News, the anchor’s tone was firm, her words clipped. “The tragedy at Indigo Run Middle School has sparked a renewed debate over gun rights and school safety. Conservative leaders are proposing measures to arm teachers, arguing that it could have stopped the shooter. Meanwhile, Democrats are pushing for new gun control legislation, including expanded background checks and an assault weapons ban. The question remains: can either side come together to prevent the next tragedy?”

The feed cut to a press conference on Capitol Hill. A senator stood behind a podium, his expression somber yet detached. “Our thoughts and prayers are with the victims and their families,” he said, pausing for effect. “But this is not the time to politicize a tragedy. We need to focus on addressing mental health and ensuring that our schools are better equipped to handle emergencies.”

The broadcast transitioned to CNN, where the anchor’s voice was softer, yet weighted with grief. “Tonight, we honor the victims of Indigo Run Middle School, whose faces have become symbols of a broken system. Mary Fletcher, age 13, was known for her bright smile and love of soccer. Scott Tammany, age 12, was remembered by his father, Officer Greg Tammany, as ‘the best son a man could ask for.’ And Leslie Kim, age 14, dreamed of becoming an artist before her life was cut tragically short.”

A montage followed, showing yearbook photos of the victims, their youth frozen in time. The names and ages scrolled across the screen: Mary Fletcher, 13. Scott Tammany, 12. Phoebe Harris, 14. Amil Patel, 14. The list seemed endless, each name a life taken, each photo a story unfinished.

MSNBC turned its focus to the community, showing rows of flowers and candles outside the school gates. A mother stood at the front of the vigil, her voice shaking as she clutched a photo of her child. “I sent her to school that morning, and she never came home,” she said, her tears falling freely. “How many more children have to die before someone does something? How many more funerals do we have to attend?”

The coverage shifted to stark graphics and statistics. The anchor’s voice grew colder, more clinical. “This marks the 47th school shooting this year and the 621st mass shooting in the United States in 12 months. Gun violence is now the leading cause of death for children in America. And still, the debate rages on.”

Across networks, the discourse was fractured. A Fox News panel debated the merits of arming teachers. “If someone in that school had been armed, this wouldn’t have happened,” one pundit argued. A counterpoint emerged on MSNBC, where a lawmaker pushed for reform. “The gun lobby has a stranglehold on this country,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “How many more innocent lives need to be lost before we act?”

The BBC took a broader view, analyzing the international reaction. “The Indigo Run shooting has once again highlighted America’s gun violence epidemic,” the anchor said crisply. “In no other developed nation do school shootings occur with such frequency. For the rest of the world, the question remains: why does this keep happening?”

Finally, the cameras turned to the president, standing behind a podium in the East Room. His face was grave, his voice heavy with measured sorrow. “We mourn the lives lost at Indigo Run Middle School. As a nation, we must grieve together. But grief is not enough. We must find the courage to take action, to ensure that no parent has to bury their child because of preventable violence.”

But the president’s words rang hollow. Within hours, the political machinery ground to a familiar halt. Republicans dismissed gun control proposals as “unconstitutional overreach.” Democrats accused their counterparts of stonewalling. The public shouted into the void of social media, their cries for change drowned out by misinformation and partisan vitriol.

Days turned into weeks, and the headlines shifted. A celebrity scandal stole the spotlight. A major trial dominated the news cycle. The voices of Indigo Run’s survivors grew quieter, their grief drowned out by the next national distraction.

But for the families and survivors, the pain did not fade. They bore the weight of that day in silence, their lives divided into before and after. The school walls were repaired, the blood cleaned, but the memories remained etched in their minds. For some, the trauma would last a lifetime.

A final thought:

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”

— Edmund Burke

The End.