Imagination

He was ready. The gloomy sky was nothing but scenery; it didn't hamper anything.

Gathering his gear, he walked out of the door, not sure whether life would be the same anymore.

He stopped. For one last time, he checked his gear. He examined it with scrutiny, making sure it is as prepared as himself. Satisfied with it, he stuffed it back.

The walk to school was cool and miserable. He knew the sensation; this was his everyday route. But today he felt somewhat in control. Nothing could stop him. He is in control. He is the master. He is the man.

Several students were cycling there. Some of them looked at him and sniggered. He ignored them. He knew that he could have hurt them if he wanted to, but frivolity has no place in him today. He is with a mission, a purpose. And nothing could detract it, not even these daily abuse.

His muscles tightened now. His fingers closed around his gear, as if getting some strength and power from the sensation of holding it. Upon entering the room, he looked around the place and immediately locating them.

They looked less stronger now. Of course, they still jeer and sneer at him, like always. But they looked weak, frivolous, even vulnerable. They can say anything they liked now in their numbered life.

Few words were uttered then. He was trembling with excitement and began to perspire. Still, his hand was steady when he drew his gear, and a smirk escaped his visage when he pulled the trigger.

One went down. The others looked at him, alarmed by the deafening sound. Before any of them moved, he was firing at will; his first victims was of course his daily abusers. They went down like dolls, and he was hysterical now. The screaming and his high laughter formed a symphony of a funny sort. Some tried to come at him; these he dispatched with ease, and soon most of them had fled the room.

He stood in the midst of destruction. He panted slightly from the high dosage of adrenaline he experienced during the slaughter. Pools of blood are forming now, and he looked at them without blinking. The wasted countenance of his victims lay still, some alarmed , staring without looking at him. He kicked some of those hated ones, not out of anger but for amusement.

Not everyone was dead though. A movement caught the corner of his eye. A boy was stirring and moaning at the same time. He strode over quickly. The injured looked at him with terror and plead. Blood trailed as he struggled to back towards the wall, trying to get some distance away from the devil. But the devil merely raised his hand and fired, watching as he goes down once again, joining his friends.

Footsteps were heard in a distance. He didn't have to investigate; several figures appeared at the door. He grinned at them. The teachers were shocked and covered their mouths, while the policemen pointed their guns at him and shouted. He couldn't hear their words. He was listening inwards, his gear pointing harmlessly downwards. And finally the moment came.

With deliberated slowness, he moved the gear towards his skull. No sound was audible to him, even with the officers shouting and the sirens on full swing. Before completing his final mission, he winked at the vicinity and pulled a wry face.

Everything else went black, and nothing matters anymore.