An End to the Suffering

I am a hero, or at least the local news stations have characterized me as such. To the contrary, I feel as though I am a rather frail, apprehensive young man without a whole lot of purpose in life. The occasion which led to me earning the title of a hero, is now just a blur in my thoughts. It was just like every other Friday in school. There had been a bit of ecstasy in the air that morning, for we had a three day weekend coming up and the weather was finally beautiful. Not a single soul had any reason to suspect that our good cheer would come to a tragic, abrupt end.
I seemed to have a unusual feeling in my stomach after my lunch hour. I just played it off as being a bit of uneasiness from the fine cuisine prepared by the cafeteria ladies. Sorry about that, a little sarcasm was present in that statement. Looking back now, I feel that it was a bit of foreshadowing, a possible sign of things to come. You know, how you get that weird sixth sense before something happens. It is just as bizarre, and unexplainable as déjà vu, some creepy stuff really. 
It was not until the tone sounded, ending our fifth class period that I really began to feel it. I began sweating, my heart was pounding, and my hair stood on end. That is when it happened. The school's halls erupted in panic as an unknown gunman began firing, shot after shot, into unsuspecting victims who had nowhere to run. As I think of it now, I remember how a great calm fell upon me as I figured out the situation. The halls seemed to darken, with only a dull bit of grey light allowing itself to be seen. Terrified screams of terror filled the halls between the piercing sounds of gunfire. Students were running for there lives in each and every direction, unfortunately to no avail.
He was a young kid, probably just an underclassman. I had no clue as to his name. I did not even recognize him. Poor kid. What would make him decide to do something like this? The press, of course, points the blame at the usual suspects: violent media and/or bullying. As I now reflect upon the moment, and glimpse through an old yearbook, I see that the kid was a small, fragile, young-faced kid, such as myself. Just by looking at him, and reading his features in the pictures I guess that he was most likely bullied, the victim of a number of sick games. He just could not handle it anymore, fed up with the constant badgering poured upon him by the popular crowd.
Today, I now feel sorry for the kid. I regret never knowing him, the real him. The kid he was when not confronted by malice and hatred. I now believe he was a good kid, just pushed to his limits, but at that horrific moment I knew something had to be done to bring the madness to an end. I decided to take action.
I have no idea what came over me, because in a normal situation, I am the type to just stand silently in the corner. Oddly in this situation, I became fearless. I waited for the opportune time to jump the gunman. He turned away from my direction and was distracted by the sobbing of a petite girl whom I did not recognize at the time.
"Don't cry...I'm not gonna hurt you," he said reassuringly, and with deep sympathy. Now, in reflection, I realize the true intentions of the kid. Not cruel intentions, he did not look to harm the innocent. Instead, he was out for revenge, vengeance upon those who had unknowingly ruined his life, those unfortunate souls who had made his life a living hell.
I withdrew a pen, my only weapon, and charged the unsuspecting gunman. I swung my pen-wielding hand at the kid's neck. A direct hit, right in the neck. I was running full force at the kid, and as I collided with his body, we both fell to the unforgiving floor. My actions had caught him off-guard in such a manner that the collision caused him to drop the firearm to the floor. There we were sprawling all over the floor, each struggling to subdue the other. Repeatedly I struck the kid, piercing his young flesh with the pen. After only a brief struggle, his body fell limp. We lay there, his lifeless body upon mine.
A sick, heartbreaking picture of the scene is now permanently etched into my mind, an often reoccurring nightmare which haunts me, night after night. I still see his fear-stricken face, as I go through my day-to-day existence. I can no longer handle the stress from the blood on my hands. I can no longer live with what I did that day. I must end the pain. That is why I have to do this, and put an end to the suffering. I am not a hero.