Once upon a time,

we had held hands and wished upon stars as the world turned around us. I would hold you like the brightest of broken angels and watch as the rain in your eyes evaporated, as your warm fingers unfurled and wrapped around mine. We would roll around under covers and over soft green grass, reveling in life itself.

We had been way too young, immature high school students who thought they'd stumbled across the threshold of a rare thing called love. Or, at least, I had. I would watch the soft rise and fall of your chest and your stomach, imagining little birds flying around inside. A bird is a pure creature, small and soft, just like you. I had held on to you like the purest of gold, keeping you for your beauty, not spending you for your value...

But that was then. This is now.

Now you've torn me down like you tore down everything in which you'd believed. Now you're just Little Miss Whore, and I'm just the silent freak in the corner, biting at his nails and picking at his skin. Hope had been born in my hole of a mind, but you tore it down and left it gray and decaying. There's nothing more crushing than having your only hope raised up and then brought down in front of you, Little Miss Whore. Nothing.

But hey girl, I'd still do anything for you! I'd take you anywhere – especially down, down with me. I'm falling so fast that I just have to bring someone with me, you know? Cascade into dark and nothing with my hand gripping your skinny bracelet-armored wrist. I'll leech off you like you leeched off me, pick at your skin to show you how mine feels. The rawness will be real, beautiful, like you. We'll be a synthesis of love and hope once again, a world of unaffected bliss. I'll sleep and dream next to your corpse-cold flesh every fucking night, and I'll tell you stories until you won't want to hear anything anymore, ever.

But you'll be dead,

so you won't be able to protest.

That's the plan that I go over in my head every moment, every second. I had a heart once, but it's gone cold and dark with self-loathing and loneliness. Trust me, I know loneliness; I've killed off every relationship that I've ever had, drained the color from the complexion of the once-lovely woman that is my existence. Alone is my life, alone is my dogma; you lose your connection to people, and you're no longer one of them. You are an inhuman outcast, a witch to be burned at the stake. You are your own God.

I enter the cold white classroom of girls and boys, boys and girls. Boys. You've fucked all of them, I'm assuming. I can grab you by the hair and twist your neck until it makes a sickly snapping sound, screaming "why don't you love me, whore?", but I don't. I pull the trigger instead. You twitch and you melt into disease as they scream and run, run and scream, but they don't flee; they can't flee, I've made sure of that, I've locked the doors from the outside. Shoot, shoot, shoot; twitch, twitch, melt, disease. Disease, disease, I'm sick with disease, somebody help me-

"Why?" someone screams, looking me in the eye. It's a girl, one that had been friendly to me. She thought she knew me; she thought I was nice and quiet. "Why-"

Lock and load, more shots, scream and explode. They beg and they cry, and I'm sure they'd love to tackle me down, but there are no heroes in the room; the world is running short on heroes, really. I once had a lot of them, until they degenerated into nothing more than regular humans, sick and disgusting.

Watching your classmates die is like a comedy movie. Everybody is running around, doing something funny – crying, screaming, sometimes praying. It's interesting to see which ones are ready to die (the ones who solemnly accept their fate, their eyes like stones) and which ones aren't (the cute little life-virgins and the girls and boys who beg for their lives). Being the cause of death is like a good thriller: you almost don't want to see what happens next, but you have to, or you won't be satisfied...and in the end, you're glad you saw it.

As my ex-girlfriend's dead body falls to my feet, I wonder what cruel, sadistic gods decided to send me as the bringer of death. I am just as cruel as they, not heeding any pleas for life, even though a tiny, tiny human part of me begs to please, please stop. That part grows steadily like a tumor, a cancer trying to consume me, but I fight it. It suddenly occurs to me that death is beautiful, that there is nothing more gorgeous than the lights fading from someone's eyes. I long for the lights fading from my own eyes, throwing all my plans aside. I am someone else.

I'm someone different, I'm someone completely new. I'm the boy with the disease and the gun. I am the hopeful turned into the hopeless, the jaded mortal-turned-god. I am dead, twitching and melting into sociopath soup; in that final moment, we are all one and the same, me and Little Miss Whore and the boys and the girls. We are one.

Bang, Out like a light,

without any fight;

I watch as the world goes black, and in those final moments, revel in death itself.

The funeral will be grand, a media feast.

The death toll will be grander once I'm added to it.

The shots reach my head in a flurry of lead illness,

turning me into one of the dead.