He feels the bullet tear through him in an almost dreamlike state of white. For a moment he worried it had missed, but he soon felt himself floating to the ground. He tried to smile at the boy across from him, his best friend, his killer, his saviour. He relaxed. Crying, he lay there for what seemed like hours, dreaming, feeling the blood pour out of his head. Seconds after he was shot, he died.

The boy who shot him looked at the body in front of him. The fear of the gun in his hands subsided, and he closed his eyes, letting his finger tense. The loud shots make him wince, and he begins to cry. He doesn't want this, doesn't want to hurt people. Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he stops. His eyes still closed, he grieves in his own way for those dead or hurt. Slowly, trying his best to block out the voices around him, the cold, the pain, he raises his gun to his head. He dies instantly, with a slight smile.

With an air of detachment, a girl in the corner looks on. She is glad only two are hurt, both dead. Sinking to the floor, she watches as people cautiously rush about, or stand still, shocked. Sirens approach, and she notes the deep red of the pools of blood. The scene is beautiful to her, n a strange way. In her mind, she stares at the two boys looking at each other. They nod, and brace themselves. Then, a loud shot, and one falls. The girl knows the act was consensual, and she somehow accepts that, wishing both the best.

Some well meaning adult comes over to her, fussing. They help her up, and for a moment, her skin itches with the ghosts of her self-abuse. For a moment, she wishes it was she who had been shot. Then, she is distracted from her thoughts by a group of official looking adults, good intentioned if not helpful.

The two boys look on, then turn, first holding hands, then drawing each other close. Maybe, now, they can be happy.