The school bell rang loud and assertive that day. Life was all too normal. It was, at the beginning, an exact replica of the day before. The sounds, the sights, the smells, they were the twins of yesterday. No one seemed to notice. No one ever notices the things that don’t change.

The fear of not being noticed was felt in the second shot.
He had not seemed different, but no one really knew him well enough to tell. Each day since the beginning of the year, he had worn a black t-shirt and pants, but on that day, he wore a sweatshirt as well. This had been noticed by a few, but a sweatshirt is just a sweatshirt they thought, and continued on, oblivious to their mistake.

The fear of being wrong was felt in the third shot.
As the afternoon settled in, the halls grew quiet. They knew what was coming. The walls knew, and the doors knew, and every tile in the ceiling knew, but they could give no warning. All they could do was watch the kids who sat in their classes, struggle through that days assignments. Heads being scratched and pencils being tapped froze at the loud “BANG” that continued to echo throughout the halls, even years after it had been produced.

The fear of the unknown was felt in the first shot. Screams rang out and teachers sprinted to their doors locking them and pulling the blinds to cover the windows. The students were ushered to corners and closets and ordered to sit, listen and wait.
Thirty minutes passed. The school waited deadlocked, wishing it knew what had happened. Outside, the clouds grew dark. The bricks of the building sagged; they were listening to the labored breathing of the students trapped. They were afraid of what they didn’t know and their fear grew to frustration as the clock hands continued to tick in the barring silence. “How much longer?” they thought.
“Bang!” another shot ricochet in the ears of the discomposed. The bullet ripped through a faucet head in the locker room and water began to wash the blood away from the bleached tiles. In room 206, the teacher counted over and over again, realizing someone was missing. Two pairs of eyes widened simultaneously; one for the fear of being overlooked and the other for the fear of being too late to save her.
“Bang!” the third shot was seen by many, and the fear of the unknown died along with its victim. Rain began to fall, and drops raced down each window, like tears, as they gazed out into the courtyard. A figure of black fabric was crumpled with red ink pooled around him. The gun lay in his grip, and the girl who yelled “please don’t”, held a slip of paper that read in a dark scribble, “I am sorry”.
The rain that day washed all evidence of regret from his face, but the girl with the note knew that it had not been fear driving his actions and it had not been fear that pushed him to pull the trigger. She had looked into his eyes as he pointed the gun towards her, all she saw was a soul shattered by fear.
She had reached forward, her hand reaching his just as the shot rang out, but she felt no pain. His lips parted to say “I am sorry”. She watched a tear roll down his broken face and the shadow of fear slip away to find another victim.