The baby grand piano sang under my fingertips as it had for the last ten years, but today it was different. Whereas it had usually created beautiful sounds, it now rang out with sad somber notes to me, even though I was still playing the same songs as I had. They were not beautiful or happy to me now. Nothing was. I had no purpose in life.
I let my hands reach from the keyboard to the piece of paper I was writing on, a sheet of staffed music paper, where I was composing another song. I had been a singer and songwriter ever since I got out of high school, the very one across the street in fact. I wrote the last note on the sheet before taking a long swig out of my glass. I had absolutely no idea what I was drinking. It could have been beer or water or soda, my taste was not functioning. I had no purpose.
Reading what I had written on the paper, I played all the notes and hummed the words to myself, all the way through the song to the double bar line signifying the end of the song. I sang and played the song once more, once again, and finally once more, but it did not affect me the way my songs had once. I had no reason to enjoy them or feel any emotion anymore. I cursed and balled up the music, hurling it across the room in a fit of rage, where it collided with the picture frame standing in the corner, knocking it from its lofty perch. I jumped up, making for the frame, sticking out my hand to grab it as it fell, spinning from my fingers just as I reached. It fell to the floor, the frame staying intact, but the glass screen broke into about twenty pieces.
I picked up the frame, cursing again, flipping it over to observe the damage. Luckily, it was mostly superficial. The picture inside was still intact, covered with broken glass that made it appear as if the small photo had been wrapped up in a spider’s web. Within the web, staring at me through the broken glass were the piercing hazel eyes of my fiancé, Chloe. Her red hair was tied back in a bun, and over that she wore a Portal 2 hat. She had been smiling when I took the photo. We were at the Electronics Entertainment Expo a week ago, when we were at the VALVe booth, so she asked me if I could take the picture. I obliged, and that had been the last picture ever taken of her. Just minutes later, as we were crossing the street to go eat dinner, a drunk driver had drifting into our lane. As I swerved away, his truck slammed into the passenger side door of my Mustang, smashing it in entirely. The police and EMTs arrived soon after, but even modern medical technology cannot fix a broken neck and head trauma.
Ever since that week, nothing was the same. My life was quiet and boring. Nothing could make me happy, and where I had visited the arcade frequently and played concerts almost nightly, I stayed secluded in my home. As I stared at the broken picture, the guilt hit me again. I should have ignored my reflexes and spun the car towards the driver, putting my door in the path of the collision. Chloe might still be alive.
I sat down the picture frame, closing, my eyes and sitting down on the piano bench, breathing deeply, thinking about my life for a while, weighing my options. I stood up from the bench, knowing what I had to do. I ascended the stairs towards the bedroom, taking the steps slowly, each step bringing back another memory of my time with Chole. I began to scowl, angrily pushing back the memories as I reached the bedroom, opening the door, and closing it behind me. I heading directly to the bed, sitting down on the mattress and reaching between my legs and under the bed to pull out a green ammo crate. Opening it, I pulled out my Walther P99, inserting the clip into the grip, pulling back the side and chambering a round. I closed the crate, shoving it back under the bed, exiting the room. As I took slow, deliberate steps towards the stairs, the words of a Police song came to my mind.
I guess you’d call it suicide, but I’m too full to swallow my pride.
I can’t, I can’, I can’t stand losin’
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand losin’
I can’t, I can’, I can’t stand losin’
I can’t, I can’t, I can’t stand losin’
Can’t stand losin’ you.
Once more, I shrugged my thoughts off and descended the stairs as the school bell across the street rang out loud, to signal the start of school. I descended into the piano room again, sitting back down on the stool, swiveling to stare at Chloe’s picture one last time, before closing my eyes and aiming the pistol at my temple, flexing my finger above the trigger.
The gunshot rang across the entire house and I jumped off the seat. The P99 flew from my grip, sliding across the tiled floor, the slide popping off and landing next to me. I opened my eyes, shocked that I wasn’t dead, when I heard more gunshots, echoing across the house. I stooped down to pick up the P99, pushing the slide back onto it, opening the blinds and peering out into the early morning light.
Standing on the school lawn was man who looked to be in his older years, a shotgun slung over his back, a pistol on his hip, and an assault rifle in his hand, firing it through the front school glass window. He was laughing maniacally as screams emanated from the inside of the school building. After a few seconds, he ran out of ammunition, dropping the clip from the AR, pulling a new one from his pocket. A teacher rushed him, but the shooter smashed him in the face with the butt of his rifle, following up with a shot from the AR.
Shutting the curtain, I looked at the pistol in my hand. I nodded. I had a purpose. I stood up, drawing the pistol in a combat grip and opening my front door, stepping outside onto my lawn. I saw the shooter across the street, his AR blazing with gunfire, and I raised the Walther, aiming, and firing one shot.
……….
LOCAL MUSICIAN SINGLEHANDEDLY STOPS SCHOOL SHOOTER
A local man, who wishes to remain anonymous, took down a 48-year-old armed gunman who was attacking the High School.

The local hero was a musician who had been ready to commit suicide, grieved from the loss of his fiancé when he heard the sounds of gunfire from the school, which was directly across the street from his home. He took action, firing his Walther P99 pistol across the street and into the man’s temple, killing him on impact.

The assailant, one John Monroe, a man who had many accounts of incidents like this, in which he believed he was acting “in the greater good of humanity.”

The anonymous musician has been credited with saving countless lives, and will reveal his name a year from now at a city hall meeting. When interviewed, he told us that he “wished for the rucuss to die down before he gave his name. [He] had no intention of becoming a hero.