DeKalb

How disconnected. How disconnected from reality to think you should kill. To kill others, to kill anyone, but to kill unknown others, seemingly at random and not think. That's what makes people wonder, Gunman. You didn't think about their mothers and fathers. Their child is dead, destroying a natural order of the child outliving the parent. Brothers and sisters losing a brother or sister in a crazy, violent instant. Their blood brought your blood, Gunman, when you took the easy route and turned on yourself.

Lives go on, but "life" is altered for the living. Altered with loss, with a hole, an empty hole filled with questions and anger and, for those special some, forgiveness. But always, the quesion will remain. Why? There never will be an answer, because there isn't one. Not one good enough, ever, to explain why.

How delusional. Gunman, did you think you were important? Settling a score for your pain, the pain you must have had in your head, with people you didn't know. Others, random others, paid for what was going on inside of you. Did you feel better, Gunman, in those last seconds? Or did you feel better in the minutes, hours, days, after your decision was made. Was the pressure off you then, because you knew you were at the end? Was your breathing a little easier, because the weight was off your chest? The weight of your delusion obviously became too heavy to bear. So you shared it. With people who didn't want it. Didn't know you. Never sought you out like you sought them out. Those who are gone, are gone. Sad. Horrific. Didn't deserve it. Gunman is gone too. It's those who are left that bear the weight of your delusions now.