Warning: This series is gonna be dark, so the imagery of this rant may be disturbing.
Words. That's what people said. They were just words. Such small, insignificant things. Like air. Insubstantial. Fag. Bitch. Punk. Just words.
But the 44 Magnum I brought to school, not words. When I took all the hate and the pain and sent it back to it's source, the gun spoke for me. Guns are more powerful than words.
After that no one talked to me anymore. Only about me. The teachers talked to the police. My classmates talked to the press. The lawyers talked to the jury. A tornado of questions and speculations surrounded me, and I sat at the quiet center barely aware of what was happening.
As I sit in my cell, some distant part of me knows people think what I did was wrong, that I overreacted. But I don't think they understand. I think they just don't know. They have no idea how blissful the silence is.