A loud boom rang throughout the halls of Webster High School, shaking every student and teacher to the bone. Claire is the only one in class who doesn't look outside to see the black rain clouds lined up like black town cars outside a funeral.
"That's one," Claire whispers to herself.
The other kids in her class are completely silent as they listen to screams and shouts out in the distance. One of them grabs his bag and makes a run for the door. The rest of the class take the hint and follow., while Claire sits casually, motionless at her desk... waiting.
She watches as her classmates pick up their precious belongings in horror. She smiles, thinking of the feeble-mindedness of how they think about their school books first before surviving the storm they don't see has started.
She waits, then whispers to herself,
She reaches into pocket, pulling out her ear buds, presses play on her MP3 player, then reaches into her black gym bag and pulls out her main source of chaos and destruction. The loud crash was the kickoff bell, letting her know it's five seconds until time to move. She stands up, assault rifle in hand, takes the safety off and aims it at the crowd of classmates huddling by the door, unaware of what is to become of them. She gives out a loud yell as one boy turns to notice her smile, "Say cheese, assholes!"
She gently squeezes the curved trigger.
Paints of red fly about like an artist hurling colors at his canvas that would later become his masterpiece.
The eruption of firecrackers echo throughout her head as she makes her way out of the classroom and into the hallway, where students run like wild beheaded chickens. Each white with fear and confusion, not able to realize what is happening to their poor, now exposed school. She watches them, while awaiting her second attraction to detonate.
They are homemade bombs she and her boyfriend, John, had made. It was a hobby of theirs to build different things they found in their favorite book, the Anarchist Cookbook. She never knew what he had planned for them. Had no idea she would be using them in the near future. He was always quiet about what went on in his head.
John was a brilliant kid. A troubled genius, Claire believed.
As she wanders the crowded halls, spraying gunfire at anything and anyone in sight, she yells, "It's all your fault! You did this to yourself!"
In her head, her actions are justified. John, her best friend and lover, had been taunted and humiliated at school on a daily basis. He couldn't even come home to a loving family—his mom being an alcoholic, while his dad invariably abused him. They were completely different from her loving parents—mom being a quaint house-mother and Dad being a goofy teacher at her school.
"I just can't take it anymore," he had said to Claire the day before. "Let them pay."
He said this right before he pulled a .22 glock out of his jacket pocket and shot himself in the head. Blood spattered all over Claire's face as she wailed in terror.
She had run to his house to tell his parents, but stopped at their front porch which was on the verge of collapse. She peered into the dirty, unkempt windows and watched with hateful eyes as they went on with their disgusting lives.
Claire then felt something in her pocket. Something metal and heavy. She had forgotten she had taken it.
They were her first victims in what would be what she called The Day of Redemption.
Bomb number two goes off as planned.
Everything is going to plan, baby. You're such a genius, she thought to herself.
Within five minutes the halls are empty, except for the horrorshow lying in front of her. Bloody bodies lying limp. Some would spasm. Some were still screaming. Smoke floats in the air. She puts down her gun and starts to dance in it as if she is dancing with an invisible partner.
"This is what you wanted baby. I didn't let you down, did I?" She says to herself.
She is proud at what she had done. Now, she is ready to see not just her maker, but see her Johnny again.
It is time.
She bends down and picks up her rifle as she hears two gunshots go off. They have a different timbre to them. A different sound from her gun. She looks down and sees a wisp of smoke coming out of two holes in her chest, then blood slowly drips down onto the tiled floor. She looks up and through the fog, sees a familiar face. Her father holding up a black pistol, with smoke exhausting out of the short barrel.
"I'm sorry, Dad," she manages to breathe out before she descends to her knees, then face slapping the ground.