Gone

It baffles me. Sets my heart racing.

That moment of impact.

One can clench a weapon and inflict the ending of a life.

Once.

Thrice.

Twent-seven times.

Shot. Shot. Scream.

And then there are tears.

And phone calls.

Comforting words whispered.

But it all comes down to each moment of impact.

One girl ready for school to be over.

One boy counting the days to his birthday.

And then it all vanishes.

One shot. Two shots.

What was he thinking?

The heroes are announced.

A fighting teacher. Thank you.

A brave Principal. Thank you.

A psychologist caught in the middle. Thank you.

A mother of four. Thank you.

A dead killer.

Blood on his hands.

Grim pictures are released.

This cold-blooded killer.

He's a boy.

Hurt.

Conflicted.

Psycho.

We all think it.

And we look at our brothers.

And sisters.

Sons.

Daughters.

That could have been us.

That moment of impact.

With it's shattering effects...

That could have been us.

A dead killer.

And twenty-seven dead victims.

Evidence.

Heartbreak.

A dead killer.

The blood of a nation on his palms.

The hearts of a town at his fingertip.

A mother buries her child.

A tragedy whispered throughout the world.

Who knows?

We search for answers.

Motivation.

Weapons.

Do we take it away?

Do we leave it alone?

He's an angry boy.

He's seeking attention.

No personality.

One psychologist thinks she has answers.

Another begs to differ.

It was an outburst.

He exploded.

He's a killer.

He's the impact.

Twenty-seven living humans.

Twenty-seven plotting brains.

Twenty-seven beating hearts.

Gone.