They say it's the gun that we should fear. But listen to this. This gun that I hold, listen to it, it cannot walk, talk, or feel. This gun cannot be held responsible for actions of a hurt heart. This gun cannot  plead insanity for the guy who lost all hope. We need more people to listen not point fingers and speak of the oddites a person has. Be aware that that name you called him may have been the last straw, it may have broken him completely. Where does he turn? Not to the parents who gave up a long time ago, not to the love lost to lies and rumors, and not to the friend who hangs out with the agonizers. His steps are slow but steady and the cabinet door groans like it knows what's going to happen. His thoughts are heavy and sink into his gravel mind, the dull thuds of his calm heart only hurt him more. Zzzzzzzzzziiiiipppppp. It's in the bag. It's not breathing, it's not talking, it is just there in the bag. The sunshines even brighter the next day. He gets a late start but there he is. In the school hall. It's still there in the bag on his shoulder, it's not talking, it's not moving, it's just there. He's not moving eyes closed and ears opened, there's still time to go back and get help. "Freak". He drops his bag. Screams and shots that's all that can be heard. The sun still shines on this day, on this school where dead kids lay. He's gone to, it was his last thing to do. In this hall on this floor, they say no more. The pain was stopped when the gun was cocked. The gun didn't talk, it didn't walk, it just layed there.