Pumped Up Kicks.

Appearances are often misleading. As unpleasant as it is to realize, the happiest, most harmless seeming person may end up being the most dangerous one. They say you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, because the words inside might surprise you. Take me for example: curly auburn hair, black glasses, soft lips. But I think if you looked close enough into my green, trusting eyes, you’d see the darkness that lay beneath.

It was an abnormally hot February day, not unlike any other day, aside from the heat. The usual morning bell sounded at the usual time. The usual few kids ran into their classrooms, panting and giving their teachers a pleading look to not mark them tardy. The usual boys flirted with the usual girls, getting denied. As usual. But only I knew that this day would be anything but usual. They would all see, soon enough.

I took a great deal of care in my outfit this morning. Skinny jeans, VANS, and a v-neck band tee. It’s not every day you get to decide what you’re going to wear when you die. I wanted to go out it style; with a bang, so to say. Pun intended.

I sat in my last period class, my head strangely peaceful, my body oddly relaxed.

I raised my hand. With a newfound confidence, I didn’t wait to be called on, simply blurting out, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Mr. Simpson gave me a puzzled look, but nodded his head yes.

I calmly arose from my chair, strutting out of the room without a word.

Walking to my locker, a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. This was happening. I would finally be free from the tortures of my own mind, and those around me would be punished for their actions, at last.

As I put my combination in and gently opened the door, the excitement seemed unbearable. And as I reached in my bag, fondling for my beloved, it became more intense. As I finally fingered the gun I had retrieved, a release of energy escaped me. I can’t quite explain the feeling; it was as though my spirit had left my body, before I even had the chance to die. My body and mind where alone now, any ounce of feeling I had left in me, gone.

On the walk back to my classroom, I felt weightless, almost floating. I arrived all too quickly, not giving myself a moment before I whipped the door open.

My classmates stared at me, some snickering at my disruption, some with blank faces.

“Mr. Simpson, I’ll be taking over from here.” I announced, walking to the front of the room.

The class erupted in laughter now, shocked at my audacity.

The teacher shushed them, looking to me. “Excuse me?”

“Did I stutter?” I revealed my weapon as a hush fell over the crowd. Mr. Simpson stared at me, wide-eyed.

“What is that?” A boy in the front row asked subconsciously, as he knew full well what I held in my hand.

“Oh come on now. I know you’re not as dumb as you look.” I laughed loudly at my joke, looking at my audience.

I saw nothing but fear written on their faces.

“All your phones, on the desk. Now.” I shouted as a girl in the back attempted to call someone for help.

She gulped, as she and the rest of the students got up from their seats to place their cell phones on the teacher’s desk. They silently looked to each other, panic in their eyes.

“Are we going to die?” A girl with short blonde hair and a mousey voice whispered to another student.

“Maybe.” I smiled wickedly at her.

She looked as though she might cry, but sat down anyway.

After minutes of silence, a brave boy in the second row raised his hand.

Amused, I motioned for him to speak.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked bluntly.

The other kids widened their eyes, fearing the worst from me. It was like a silent threat; move, and you die. This boy had just broken the rules, and they anticipated a punishment.

“Ah. The age old question. Why. Why is the grass green? Why is the sky blue? Why is Mr. Simpson so hairy?” I paused, glancing at the teacher as he awkwardly rubbed his gorilla arms. “Is there a definite answer for any of those questions? No. There’s not a definite answer for anything, I suppose. There’s underlying reasons behind every story. And for those of you who survive today,” I looked meaningfully around the room, “You’ll be asking yourself that question everyday for the rest of your life. Why?”

“Please stop this, Robert.” Mr. Simpson pleaded, his voice desperate.

I pretended to think. “Eh. I don’t think I will.”

Hours passed like minutes. Sweat and tears dripped down my classmates faces like rain.

There had been a dead silence in the room for what seemed like eternity. I began to bore myself, twiddling my thumbs.

BANG. I suddenly fired towards the teacher’s desk. Mr. Simpson screamed, crimson blood gushing from his leg.

Several students shrieked, while others sobbed obnoxiously.

“Now that I have your attention,” I smiled, pointing the gun at a random classmate. Before I could pull the trigger, the door of the classroom burst open.
Immediately, several men in bullet proof vests that read SWAT ran towards me. Without a thought, I pulled the gun to my own head.
But they got to me first. If I would have pulled the trigger seconds earlier, I could have ended it at all. I could have been happy.

If appearances told all, the world could be a much better place. Good-hearted folk would have bright smiles and shimmery eyes, and the dangerous ones would have “Beware” written on their foreheads. The brave would have strong hands and sharp eyes; the weak would be puny and small. The innocent would have truthful smiles, and the guilty would appear solemn.

My mother once told me that nothing was exactly as it appeared. To never let down my guard, because the unexpected was to be expected.
I could lecture for hours, but at the end of the day, prejudice will still exist among you. My advice? Keep your eyes pealed. Minds like mine could be around any corner.
It’s a dangerous world we live in, but the most dangerous of us all are those who appear helpless.