"Maybe You Should've Just Stayed Home Today" by Steve Pulaski

NOTE: This story was written under a surname for my Creative Writing class in May 2015. It serves as the second short story I've ever written; my third short story, "Downturn," will be released in July 2015.

[....]

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling wide awake, contemplating, before ripping the covers off and leaping up on your feet. Today will be the day. The day where you will free yourself of your own pain and misery and rid the world of those who caused it. The day where you will blindside everyone who thought of you as nothing more than a passive sponge, absorbing all their hate and negativity. Little did they know that all that negativity energy was the direct fuel for your plan to make them regret what they had done to you. They’d go from hating you to hating themselves in a matter of seconds, or rather, the click of a trigger.
                There’s no time to waste. It’s time to gather everything you planned for this operation. This would be a day people would remember like their own birthday. The trauma would echo nationwide. You load up your .40 caliber Glock with a thirty-round clip and your backup .50 caliber Desert Eagle in case your Glock jams. You pack a can of tear gas and pepper spray just in case, but it’s doubtful you’ll need them. You’ve practiced at shooting ranges; you’re quick at the trigger and you’re skilled enough to carry out something like this. You file your artillery in your duffel bag, buried underneath your gym clothes, hop in your Mustang, and peel off. On the short ride to school, the passing thought of your parents’ grief comes to mind, but both of them will probably be too busy working to feel much pain. They spent more time nursing their jobs and their paychecks more than you anyway.

                You park crookedly in the parking lot of the school. Who cares anyway? You walk towards the front door and hear the same thing from the same jagoff bully you’ve heard since the first day of school. “Nice cargo pants, you fucking fairy,” he yells, summoning some laughter from others who are piling into the school. Just wait, you think to yourself, you’ll be first.

                Class starts at 8:30am and it’s only 8:10am. You walk around the school with your duffel bag, taking in one last look of the place that caused you so much hell and turmoil. High school was said to be where you were beginning to know what you wanted to do with your life and building lasting friendships. Instead, it was nothing but four years of constant bullying and ignorance. Teachers looked at you as nothing more than an underachiever, even though you spent hours preparing for tests only to come out with a C or D average. Your peers wanted nothing to do with you, writing you off on-sight for being quiet and feeble in conversations. Romantic companionship, something you’ve longed for since you began high school, was nonexistent, despite a few noteworthy attempts. Even the Zoloft you obtained from a known dealer at school didn’t do the trick. You were still plagued by thoughts of inferiority, rage, and were just about incapable of falling asleep at night without tears welling your eyes. This all needs to end. What are you waiting for?

                Thinking of all this made you bash a nearby locker with your fists, denting it, and causing the abrupt stares from your classmates. Might as well begin while you have an audience. You rip open your duffel bag, dig till you feel the cold copper handle of your .40, grab it, draw it, and begin shooting. Just squeezing the trigger gave you the adrenaline rush and satisfaction you obtain from your music. The first three bullets were for the same bully you encountered earlier that day, ripping through his chest before he collapsed with a thud. The fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth bullets were gifted to the other jock who constantly threw your books down in the hallway or would come up to your locker and incessantly make conversation. Thank God he’s done. Even after about eight seconds of violence, this floor of the school is in complete chaos; papers and bookbags fly everywhere, kids run and scream down the halls, the smell of gunpowder flows through the air, and the sense of mayhem is intoxicating. You walk around the floor a little bit longer to find the others you’d plan to eliminate. You finally find them after turning the corner, your two former best friends and their new friend, someone they began tagging along with. When they began hanging out with their new friend, they forgot entirely about you and went on to spread rumors and send hateful text messages your sophomore year. Without thinking, you squeeze the trigger repeatedly, unloading bullets into their torsos, stomachs, and skulls before all three collapse into a bloody mess. By now, the fire alarm is blaring and you hear the school’s emergency system go off; this is the one time, it seems, anyone has given a damn about you. This is probably the best time to finish up. With five dead, blood-soaked shoes, and the ultimate satisfaction, you put the toasty end of your .40 to your lips, fondle for the trigger with your pointer finger, close your eyes, and confidently pull it. You’ve achieved the complete relief you’ve long desired.

                After an indeterminate time spent in blackness, you’re now placed before a bright, blinding white landscape. You have no idea where/when you are and you can barely open your eyes due to the blinding force of light. Suddenly, you’re placed before five familiar faces in a circle; you recognize all of them and all are bearing the same clothes they wore that day their lives ended, complete with bloodshed and bulletholes. Seeing them like this up close makes you uneasy, but you try to remind yourself what they did to you to deserve their fate.

                The first to open their mouth is the bully who greeted you every day on the steps. “Granted, I always harassed you before class, but I had my own problems as well,” he said with an expressionless face. His voice echo through the limitless space we were all encapsulated inside. “My family was trying so hard to put me through college that they’d be up late arguing about how they’d pay for it and what I’d study when I got there. I felt like my identity was being stripped away. However, it would’ve all worked out. I would’ve studied political science and computer science, achieving success in both fields and going on to be a computer scientist in Silicon Valley. Before long, I realize that would’ve been a dream come true. My parents would’ve been so proud; I was their only child after a miscarriage.”

                The next one to speak is the other jock who constantly bothered you by throwing your books down in the hallways. “Two days after you did what you did, the principal would’ve called me into his office to reprimand me for what I, not only did to you, but what I did to over a dozen of other kids,” he said. “I, unlike him,” pointing to the previous bully, “don’t have a real excuse for my behavior. It was a joke for the moment and I didn’t even think about any lasting effects. When I apologized to you, you would’ve accepted it and we would’ve lived out the last few months of senior year together. I’d even hook you up with some baseball tickets since my father’s a season ticket holder and you would’ve at least exited high school with one impacting friendship.”

                You stand in complete disbelief, but there you couldn’t speak. You were silenced by some outside force. You and your voices in your head spoke for so long that you never gave any thought to others. All you could do right now was listen to the ones you hurt.

The third victim of your crime speaks, one of your former best friends. “I was really looking forward to graduating because I’d go off to business school in Wisconsin. I’d be the first person in my family to go to college and hopefully rise above the tireless working class lifestyle my parents have been a part of their entire life,” he said. “They set the bar for success high for me since I was their only kid, and would frequently ask about how you were doing. I’d try and make it seem like we were still casual friends, and I know it was wrong to bully you, but I got caught up in peer pressure. One wrong I wanted to right was to try and become friends with you again before we graduated. I wish we had the chance,” he concluded, as the blood from the bulletholes in his chest began to flow out of him and onto the bright floor below.

The fourth victim, your other ex-best friend, gets his turn to speak. “I was looking forward to studying pre-med in San Diego following graduation. I would’ve went off and worked with a team of specialists to further medical research following graduating college. I remember the days we used to hang out together, but I quit hanging around you for one simple reason – you’re so self-indulgent. You think you’re the only miserable person in the entire world, and you think your misery overshadows any troubles or feelings of inferiority had by others. Your action that day only affirms how sick of a human being you are.” His words cut like glass, but you couldn’t return any of your own.

Finally, the fifth victim spoke. “Your friends didn’t turn on you because of me,” he said, “they turned on you because they finally saw who you were – a manipulative, spoiled brat who felt his problems came first. Your friends always said that, even in the company of others, you were drearily cynical and miserable and could never find solace with anyone. You were consistently bitter, no matter what you did. The only good to come of this situation is that you’re here with us, where you belong – in nothingness. Maybe you’ll finally crack a smile.”

Your stomach falls so far that you feel it has hit the floor. What was thought to give you complete relief and internal peace did nothing but make you feel queasy, self-centered, and vile. The town was probably torn apart by your crime, families ripped apart, and a country was in mourning because of what you did. Maybe you should’ve sought professional help. Maybe you should’ve tried to be a more understanding friend. Maybe you should’ve just stayed home today.