My hands were raised high above me, as I overwhelmed myself towards the music. My heart raced onwards, I felt each beat within my chest, and I felt it as the drum grew louder, steadier, stronger. It was a feeling I yearned for every day of my life and it was the feeling that I received at this very moment. It had been a long time since I felt this sensation. Oh, God, I had missed it so much.

Caught in the music as I moshed with the crowd, I hardly noticed when I bumped into another person beside me. My left arm stung slightly. I turned around, slightly peeved, ready for that short and emotionless apology. But as he stood up, he was vaguely frozen before he returned to banging his head to the music. No swear was spoken, not even an insult crossed his lips. My eyebrows furrowed. Was this person human? Every other person would have started throwing a temper this very moment.

The conclusion drawn was that he was an uptown guy. Of course. Private schools sucked the emotions out of a person, made them all polite and dead inside, and made them too stuck up to throw one tiny, filthy word. As the song ended and the crowd roared in appreciation, I turned to look at him and soon realized that my judgment was out of line. He couldn't be from the upper parts of town. His appearance contradicted this. I looked away quickly as he gazed at me with his common brown eyes.

Thoughts shot through my head ruthlessly as always when I was in an uncomfortable situation. Why does he have to stare so much? Why does he have to be so quiet and mysterious? Why does he have to pretend that everything is fine and dandy? I hated people who were like that, they reminded me of myself. Maybe he was thinking stuff like this in his head too? But when I turned back to him he was looking at the front once more, where everyone else was looking at, everyone, that is, except me.

What was I doing? I was at a freaking Green Day concert and I wasn't even paying much attention to the music. I was too wrapped up in this guy to even watch them perform. I turned my head to the front to see Billie Joe saluting the crowd in a derisive way. I laughed out loud. This was what it was all about. As he sang the song, I mouthed the lyrics that I knew by heart, smiling inwards. I loved music. If it didn't exist then I would suffocate, it was the air that I breathed.

But my attention was instantly drawn back to that same boy, as if stuck like bubblegum – sticky pink gross gum. I was right to presume that he wasn't a private school person. You just could tell by the way he looked. His brown hair was all ruffled and mingled with sweat and cheap gel. His entire attitude was that of a normal, average person who's been to several hundred rock concerts. His head beating to each beat, his arms swaying to each word, his feet jumping to each 'twang' of the electric guitar, you could tell that he loved the music almost as much as I did.

And still I was not listening to a word that Billie Joe sang. He was somewhere in the middle of Give Me Novocain. It seemed to slur everything down in the crowd, like we'd all been injected with anesthetics or something. My entire body started to slow down, each muscle becoming restless and lethargic. I dropped my head to the ground, hanging it on my shoulders and swayed my arms up. It was all beautiful, in a bizarre way, about three hundred adolescence gathering as one to rock. Life had its satire sense of humor.

All of a sudden a sharp crack was heard from the back and everyone froze in their spots in terror. My heart was ready to burst from my chest. That couldn't be what I thought it was, was it? I smelt a faint stench of something that was burnt and when I turned around, all I could see were the people in the mosh pit moving closer to the front in horror. I went on tiptoes trying to see above the heads but my cursed height prevented me from seeing anything important. From behind me I could hear a guy saying, "What the hell's going on? What was that?"

I turned around to see who it was and to my surprise it was him. The guy I had bumped into earlier. He had forgotten his clandestine barrier between me and him, and he was looking at me for an answer. He obviously thought I had one, as I was the one who had jumped up to try and see through the swarm.

"I think someone has a gun, I'm not too sure," I said timorously.

He looked at me with wide eyes. I knew that he had already suspected such a thing but for it to come from someone else's mouth was another thing entirely. I had to agree with him too. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Maybe I should have said that I couldn't see anything. I looked up at the band and I could already see what looked like bodyguards coming to usher the members away – so much for a perfect rock concert. Apparently that guy was thinking the exact same thing.

"Damn!" He swore. "God, this is so unfair." At that point he turned to me. "I think we'd better get out of here, it's too God damn dangerous." I could only nod. I followed him through the thousands of people who were there. I couldn't believe how weak I was being but at that very moment my whole body felt like a bowl of jelly, with the exception of my legs, my legs felt like lead.

Everyone else seemed to be in a hurry to leave as well. We were all jammed near the entrance like a can of sardines trying to force our way out. I didn't know who the maniac was to have brought a gun to the concert but I knew that I didn't want to stay. For some reason it brought curiosity, but why did the person want to fire a gun? What good did it do to him/her? Suddenly an atrocious thought crossed my mind – had someone died? Was there someone lying on the floor at this very moment, bleeding from a bullet wound to the chest or something like that? I could just imagine the life slowly escaping that person's body, and by the time any medical attention was given to this person – it would be too late. Something within me ached for that person.

Suddenly another crack of a gun erupted. But this time closer, no, it had taken place right in front of me – someone collapsed onto the ground. I looked at my shirt and saw that it had something dark and red splattered all over it. A distinct familiar smell crossed my nose and I felt like I was about to vomit. It was blood. Somebody's blood. But not any somebody, the person who had guided me to the entrance gate, it was that guy, the guy who I had accidentally bumped into, the guy that I had insulted within my mind. I had only known him for a few minutes, heck, I didn't even know his name. We had only spoken a few sentences to each other. Yet, here I was, crying over him bitterly, crying over the horrible consequence of it all, crying angrily at the world for doing this to me. It was all supposed to be my perfect night. Go to a Green Day concert, rock my heart out, and let all the pain go away. But no. Instead of removing any anguish, this night had only caused new angst to form. And all I could do was cry, cry over everything that had gone wrong that night, cry for the sake of a person I barely knew and the fact that I couldn't save him, cry for the shame that everyone was watching me do this.

One month and fifteen days has passed since then. I still remember his face when he died; those eyes were hollow and bare. No sign of life within them. I still remember the sirens that followed, the ambulance coming to carry two dead bodies away that night, and I still remember my Mum coming to pick me up, looking worriedly at my face, wondering why I was covered in blood, dirt and tears.

I still don't know the name of that guy, I still don't know the person who had killed him, and I still don't know the other victim to that disastrous night. Everyone in my school referred to it as the 'Green Gunshot' but I know that no one in my school had been there except for me. They don't know about that. But I'd never tell them. I don't want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that a person from their school had been there. The 'Green Gunshot' can be kept a mystery as far as I'm concerned.

As for me? I'll live. But I couldn't help but wonder if I hadn't been pushed to the right in a fraction of a second before, that maybe I would have been the one dead, and that dead guy would be the one wondering about my name; because I still wonder about his.