Young Writers Society

No one could have known what would happen today.

The game was about to start, the players were ready.

But instead of the whistle, a gunshot rang out across the stadium. All at once, everything was silent, and people turned, searched and focused on a single figure in the middle of the row. He was holding a gun to the sky, his eyes glassy, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Looking round at the shocked faces, he proceeded lowering the gun until it was pointing towards the people in front of him.

The reaction was immediate. The surprise that had made the people freeze faded away into panic as people screamed and ran for cover, tripping over themselves, trying to get away.

Not me, though. I didn't run.

Why would I, when i was the one holding the gun?

I loathe these people. I can't remember why. My mind is blank, nothing but rage devouring thought, compassion, recognition. Stop, a small voice says, but a louder one says, Shoot!

A girl falls across from me. I don't remember her. She looks at me, wide-eyed, disbelieving.

"Al," she says. "What are you doing, Al?"

Should I know her? Do I know her? An image flashes in my mind: A girl with golden, glowing hair, helping me up and rubbing the dirt off my cheek; brown eyes smiling at me and saying, I have faith in you.

But the image is gone, I can't remember anything, and the voice says, Nobody! She's nobody! She hates you, she wants to hurt you, SHOOT!

I pull the trigger.

She collapses, and I step over her bleeding body. Every step, every beat of my heart is fire, it is anger.

These people deserve to die, the voice says, but a smaller one says, 'Stop.'

I close my eyes as the people keep screaming around me.

I see hands shoving me; i hear snickers as my belongings are thrown down the toilet; and punches after punches: in my stomach, my jaw.

Another person, shielding herself beneath the seats. Another girl.

"Get the fuck away from me, freak!" she screams. I remember the same voice saying, 'You're a worthless piece of crap." I remember her calling out to Mr. Jed: "Sir, Alan Sayers is cheating off my test," when i was doing nothing.

She tries to scramble away, but i see why she was under the seat: her legs are stuck.

I raise the gun. Bang.

You will no longer tolerate, the voice says. This is a battleground, and you are no longer the front line.

A boy this time. His head is already bleeding.

"Alan," he says. "I'm sorry. I'll never bully you again. Alan, listen, please. I'm sorry." He begs. He's on his knees, and he's begging.

They're crying for your mercy now, the voice says. They who tortured you everyday. But we show no mercy.

I recognize him. Him. Athlete, jock, whatever. King of the school. Stealing my inhaler. Locking me in the locker room. Hurting me.

This time, the voice is silent. I raise the gun on my own. Tears run down my cheeks and I don't know why.

Bang. He falls. Bang. Blood starts pooling. Bang, bang, bang. A thousand shots, again, again, and again.

Last shot. I turn the gun to my heart.

You are no longer the hunted.

You are the hunter.

I shoot.