It began the day a teenaged boy went into our high school and shot thirty eight people, twenty two of them died. Afterward he shot himself in the head. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t die immediately. He was in the ICU for forty seven hours before passing.

He was wearing a Backstreet Boys 2001 Black and Blue World Tour T-shirt at the time of the shooting. The media decided it was satyrical and blamed the incident on Marilyn Manson anyway.

That night he visited me in a dream. He asked me if he made the news. Instead of answering him, I asked him why he didn’t shoot me.

I don’t know why I asked that, but in dreams you do a lot of things you don’t understand.

He never answered my question.

That was last year, when I was a sophomore. I didn’t dream of him again until a week ago.

He came to me while I was taking a test in my calculus class, suddenly appearing in the desk next to me. No one else in my dream seemed to notice him.

“Does anyone remember me?” He asked.

“No.” I said quickly, not needing to think about it.

“Is anyone worried about dying anymore?”

“No.” I answered just as quickly as before. After a moment I added, “I worry about it more and more each day.”

He nodded thoughtfully, as if taking it into consideration.

When I woke up I remembered he was wearing the same Backstreet Boys T-Shit he had on at the time of the shooting. I don’t think it was satyrical at all, I think he genuinely likes the band.