The Found One

He was one of those people that looks good wearing their hats forward. Y'know, one of those people that, when you see them, because it's not backwards, you can assume they're either a farmer or a jerk?

When I first layed eyes on him, at College, I was jealous. I can't explain why I was jealous. It just sort of happened. That golden, corn colored hair sticking out of that stupid hat. That big, idiotic grin. Those bleach washed teeth. If there were ever anyone to be jealous of on sight, it was him.

Someone came to school with a gun a year later. I can't tell you whether it was stress or insanity or maybe just anger with the world. People tell me that it was all of the above. I think that he just wanted to see another Human bleed. After all, there are so few of those left in the world.

The fact of the matter was, that someone came to my class. Odd, really. So many other classes in this school, but someone chose mine. While everyone else got on the ground when the shots shattered the air, I just sat there. It's not that I wanted to die, I just couldn't compell myself to move. Remember those movies with all the slow motion stuff? Kind of like that. A doctor will tell you that the body releases chemicals that calm you down when you know you're going to die. I think they're right. . .but at that particular moment. . ..

Maybe I did want to die. Is it wrong I can empathize with the shooter?

I didn't die, though. I didn't get the chance. The guy with the hat, the guy I hated so much (I thought I was only jealous. . .)--he, well--he was pretty close to me. He pushed me over and took a couple shots to the side. It's one thing hearing a gunshot--loud, like an ear blinding boom in a room that guarantees there is no hope. It is a completely different thing to watch Human flesh be blasted away, leaving nothing but a crater hole of forcefully annihilated skin, and muscle, and bone. . .all spewing their own sort of red mucus. Nasty. A lot of it got on me, too, and that just felt wrong.

The shooter ran away then, maybe overwhelmed by what he had just done, or maybe just bored with a bunch of scared young adults pissing themselves over their first encounter with death. I somehow doubt it was anyones first, though. None of us are virgins.

Later I heard a police officer shot him down a couple hallways away from ours. And I thought everyone deserved a second chance.

I think I'm much closer with death than anyone else who was in my room, though. While everyone stayed glued to their position crying or too scared to get up, I got to hold this guy who just got shot. Dying for me. And the beautiful thing about it? I was still jealous of him. I still hated him in my gut. I couldn't help it, really. Him and that stupid hat. That stupid grin. In his last bit of life, we spoke.

"T--thank you," I said, watching him bleed. Feeling his blood on me. What compelled me to thank him? I guess he saved my life.

He smiled and leaned up at me, his shining white teeth now turning red. I listened closely. I regret the fact that I did.

"I don't give two shits about you. I know you hate me. Well, I hate you, too." He paused. Coughing, breathing hard, sweating, dying. He was doing all of that, and he still had that stupid hat on. I finally picked it up and threw it at the wall. His hair was pasted to his forhead with that sweat, and the blood oozing out of his body wasn't helping one bit.

"You know about me. You know all about me. I hate you for it. Well now, the world will only know the me I constructed."

I let him drop to the floor. He still had that stupid grin on his face. Looking at my own hands, covered in his blood, I felt completely and totally disgusted.

"Because I did this, no one will ever believe you were right."

I backed away from him. He died there, only moments after--a hero the media would praise--and I continued living.

I never looked at any one else the same.