Natural Selection

Content warning: offensive language, slurs, bullying, violence

I stare into the brown eyes in the rearview mirror. They are devoid of emotion. They’ve been hardened by society. Desensitized by their rejection. These are my eyes, I think to myself, this is me. I am you and you are me, I say to my reflection. And we are here for revenge. 

It’s been ten years since I graduated. At least this is what the flier in the mail tells me. Here I am again at the site of years of torment. Everyone told me to move on. I thought I had until I saw that flier. 

The years of torture. Slander. Bullying. I never had a girlfriend. They called me a ‘faggot.’ I was depressed and gained a few pounds. They called me ‘fatass.’ I started taking antidepressants. ‘Take your meds, psycho’ they told me.

I started taking them again after getting the flier. For years I had felt fine. Then the emotions flooded back to me. The rejection of Rose Dawson. The set-up and humiliation. It was a trap all along. How do I know this isn’t?

I break eye contact with myself. Then I reach into the backseat and grab the AR-15 assault rifle and drum mag. I step out of the car, not caring to lock it. I may never see this car again. 

As I walk up the front steps I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of the doors. It shows my backwards black hat, black combat pants and boots, matching suspenders and a white “Natural Selection’ t-shirt tucked in. An outfit inspired by one of my high-school idols, Eric Harris. I added a skull mask to the bottom half of my face to give the outfit my own flair. 

Distant music can be heard muffled from within. I’m an hour late, so nobody else is coming in behind me. They’re probably all wondering where I am, ready to make me the butt of another joke. 

The gun is slung across my back, loaded with the drum mag. 100 rounds should be sufficient to get my statement across. When I’m done admiring my reflection, I glide through the two sets of front doors with ease. No people, no locks. The music is louder now with the sound of chatter mixing with it. 

I walk down the hallway where I was shoved to the ground and called a ‘butt-fucker.’ I pass by the cafeteria where I had food dumped over my head for everyone’s amusement. The gym class where I was pantsed in front of my crush. The classroom where they called me a ‘retard’ as the teacher pretended not to hear. 

I had almost forgotten all the abuse I had gone through. At home, at school. I couldn’t escape it. Did anyone feel the same way as I did? Two guys did and they became public enemy no. 1. My heroes, Dylan and Eric. I began to emulate their style, music taste, ideologies. Dylan and Eric, partners in crime. All I had was myself and them. But they were dead. 

My worship of them got me through high-school. It took me a few years to move on after we all graduated. I kept throwing back the prozac and somehow getting more depressed. I got fatter. My self-esteem tanked. My job sucked. I was still single. 

But she saved me. Helen understood my pain. She sympathized with me. Told me that if I held onto the past it would kill me. Beautiful Helen, my favorite customer. Always buying a new self-help book. She told me to stop feeling bad for myself. That if I didn’t like my life I should change it. She was brilliant. And she was right too. 

I forgot all about those assholes from my past. It was so far behind me now. Who cared anymore? I started going to the gym, got in shape. I got confident enough to ask Helen on a date and she agreed. I ditched my shitty job and started to enjoy what I was doing. My life was going great. After a few months Helen and I moved in together. 

Then things took a turn. I lost my job. They were very sorry, but they had to make budget cuts. I thought I was their best employee? Not good enough to keep around. Not worth what they were paying me. I was in disbelief, then furious, then extremely depressed. I slept all day. Hardly showered. Helen tried to tell me the same things that had worked before. It didn’t work. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. 

Helen left. I didn’t care at first. I was still depressed about my job. Once I moved through those feelings I tried to get Helen back. She didn’t return my calls. Her friend told me that I had made my decision. I had dug my grave and now had to lie in it. 

I went crazy. Trashed the apartment. It didn’t feel the same without her there. Memories were haunting the place. Then the invitation came…

I’m standing outside the second gymnasium. It’s dark. There’re flashing lights, loud music thumping, people happy and smiling and dancing. Someone looks at me curiously as I stand just outside the doorway. My outline is silhouetted by the hallway light shining in behind me. He looks more closely, squinting, and I see that it’s Rich Edwards. Looks like he’s the fatass now. And he has his arm around another guy. My other tormentor, George Fredricks. How’s that for ‘faggot.’ 

He isn’t staring too long before there’s a bloody hole where his face used to be. The music is so loud that nobody seems to notice. Except for his butt-buddy, who looks in horror at his partner’s collapsed body. He looks to me in horror. I laugh at his stupid-looking face, then shoot his knee caps. He screams out in pain and now people are starting to look over at what all the noise is. 

Their beautiful screams of terror over the thumping bass are music to me. I aim for Tina Wong, who laughed when I was called a ‘retard.’ Who’s laughing now? Me or her doubled over carcass after I land a quick gut then head shot on her. The answer: me. Marcus Thompson, who dumped the food on my head, is trying to bust through the back exit that I already barricaded from the outside. He’s frantically ramming against it and looking to me in terror. Finally, he puts his arms up and pleads for his life and I shoot both of his hands like a stigmata. He howls in pain. I’ll come back to him. 

I fire wildly into the fleeing crowd. They’re all trying to funnel through the one door that I left open. It’s funny watching how selfish they suddenly become when they have to survive. No women or children first. The strongest first. They trample and stumble over corpses sprawled in the doorway. They slip in the blood covering the hardwood floors. Their tears and sweat drip off of them and mingle with the bloody lake on the ground. Now who’s laughing, I think. 

The big football star, Thompson, tries to tackle me with bloody hands from behind. I guess his adrenaline finally kicked in. I easily whip around and sidestep his pathetic attempt. I stare at his body sprawled on the ground. I can hardly hear his pleas over the sound of the music. Some song from our high-school days that Dylan and Eric would’ve hated. Thompson’s begging me to stop. To spare him. He has a wife and-

I blow his stupid fucking head off. Why would he think I gave a shit? After smearing mashed potatoes in my face in front of the laughing cafeteria I should show him a little mercy? 

I turn and survey my work. Corpses litter the gym floor. I’m not sure where the DJ went, but I’d like to put in a few requests for good music. I walk about to see who my victims are. Another shitty song from the high school days blasts through the speaker system. It’s so loud that I almost don’t hear the cries of Fredericks, who I almost forgot about. If he wasn’t struggling to crawl over the heap of bodies in the doorway he may have survived. 

I walk over to him and drag him off of the bodies and onto the bloody floor. He screams and pleads and tries to turn his head and face me. I put a boot on the back of his neck and splatter his brains across the floor. His struggling body goes limp under my foot. 

I turn from him to look at my other victims, flipping over bodies so I can look at the blank stares in their dead eyes. The rifle is at the ready, prepared to finish off any other survivors who might want to try to be a hero. I’m close enough to hear a woman’s pained cries near me. I approach and decide I’ll show her who I am before killing her. As I stand over her I realize it’s Rose Dawson and pull my mask down to reveal a huge grin. 

“How ya feelin’ Rose?” I ask with mock sympathy. She looks pitiful lying there. Blood is dribbling out of the sides of her mouth. She’s sputtering for air. Those ocean blue eyes find mine and go wide with terror when she realizes who I am. 

“Remember,” I ask her, grinning, “when you told me to meet you behind the gym,” I look around, then back to her, “this gym, actually, because you had something to tell me?” 

Tears stream from the sides of her eyes and to the floor. She’s a sorry sight. So was I on that day. I squat beside her.

“Did the crowd of people waiting to throw eggs,” I ask, putting the safety on and slinging the gun across my back, “have anything to do with what you wanted to ‘tell me?’”

She’s sputtering, her chest heaving with the effort to breathe. It seems her date has abandoned her here to die. Maybe her husband, but I don’t see a ring on her finger. 

“I’m-” she coughs, spraying my disgusted face with blood “s- sorry” she chokes, tears streaming down. 

“You look sorry” I tell her, standing and wiping her blood from my face. The music has stopped. The only sounds are Rose struggling to breathe and the hum of the industrial fans. I look over the bloody gym again. All the people who moved on with their lives, just here to have a good time. There was no set up. No joke against me. Maybe they were hoping to apologize for their cruelty like Rose just did. I look back to Rose and she’s staring at me desperately, like some dying animal. She’s clutching a wound in her stomach. My heart sinks and the guilt sets in. Sirens can be heard in the distance growing closer. Tears well in my eyes.

“Oh God,” I choke. I think of my job and Helen and how great everything was. I kneel down next to Rose and tell her I’m going to help her. I reassure her that she’s going to be okay, although in my mind I doubt it. She’s probably going to die. 

“I-” she coughs, “have-” she breathes in shakily “a question.”

I look at her, worried she may die here. The sirens are right outside now. I hope they’re not too late. She points a shaky finger to a spot above the DJ booth. As I turn and look, she asks:

“Where’s your-” she coughs and wheezes “boyfriend? Faggot.” 

I look in horror at the picture hanging above the DJ booth. It’s a huge print of my senior picture, defaced with x’s through my eyes, a tooth blacked out, and ‘STILL A LOSER’ written across it. I turn back to Rose and she's smiling a bloody smile. My horror turns into rage. All of the guilt I felt is washed away. I fling her hand from the stomach wound she’s clutching and plunge my hand into her gut. I can feel the flesh tearing apart. She screams piercingly. I grab a handful of the soft warm squishy intestines and ask, “hungry?” before forcing them into her screaming mouth. 

Her cries and moaning are muffled by her own intestines. I stand, switch the safety off, and blow her brains out. I hear the rumble of the SWAT team approaching down the corridor. They’re shouting strategic positions at each other. From behind me I can hear them moving the gym equipment I used to barricade the door. There’s the slamming of the battering ram against another door. Three come in through the door that I did, their weapons raised and pointed at me. ‘FREEZE!’ I hear, then blow my brains out.