Rid Of Me

A/N: This one is a little heavier and more graphic than my normal pieces!

Braxton paced around the hallway with an AR-15 in hand and a book in the other. It was his father’s; his father did competitive shooting. Braxton looked down at the book; it was his father’s as well. It was called ‘Rage’, his father’s favorite book. His father told him this book was no longer in print, that the author had stopped the printing of it, worried that it might inspire someone. Braxton tucked the book into his back pocket; he’d read it countless times, and it gave him the courage to do what he was about to do. He took a deep breath and held the gun close to his body as he entered the classroom.

It was Mr. Hannock’s classroom, his senior English professor. He was always so nasty to him; Braxton struggled with dyslexia, and Mr. Hannock was never patient with him. Now, he would return the favor to him and not be patient with him. Braxton wouldn’t hear our begging, the crying, the pleading; he would aim the gun right up to Mr. Hannock’s temple, and pull the trigger. He wanted his classroom to be the first. Braxton wasn’t necessarily doing this out of anger, but he was killing Mr. Hannock out of anger; that was for sure.

Braxton was always a disturbed child, and now he was a disturbed adult. He had just turned eighteen a week prior. As a young child, he used to experiment on animals; he would lure them, then trap them, and would explore their insides. His parents fought a lot because of him; his mother did her best to get him help; his father insisted that he would grow out of it, that he was just a young boy curious about how the world worked. His father coddled Braxton, being the youngest and only boy in the family. Braxton was his father's prized possession, loved him more than anything. He looked just like his father, from his red hair to his crooked nose, a spitting image. His father always told Braxton he could be anything he wanted to be. If he wanted to land on the moon, he could; if he wanted to travel the seas, he could. Braxton wanted to be this, and he hoped his father would be proud of him.

Braxton kicked open the door of the classroom, holding the AR-15 up. He didn’t even say anything, didn’t give them any time to react. He kept his finger steady on the trigger and started shooting anything that moved. Braxton didn’t shoot Mr. Hannock, not yet atleast. He wanted to look him in the eye when he did it; he wanted to hear the begging and laugh at it. Laugh at Mr. Hannock's futile attempts to save his life. He scanned the room, noticed the blood everywhere, the bodies of his classmates. Braxton watched as some of his classmates struggled, trying to crawl their way to the door, but their wounds were too much, and they would soon bleed out. Braxton walked around the room, searching for Mr. Hannock. That’s when he noticed him under his desk; he could see his bald head peaking out from underneath it. He walked over to his teacher and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him out from underneath the desk. Mr. Hannock was in a defensive position on the floor, covering his face with his hands.

“Please!” Mr. Hannock choked out in between sobs. Braxton laughed and yelled, “Move your hands from your face!” He wanted to look his teacher in the eye when he did it. Wanted to see his reflection in Mr. Hannock’s teary eyes. Mr. Hannock did as he was told; he had no other option. He quickly removed his hands from his face. Braxton pressed the gun against Mr. Hannock’s temple. He could watch as sweat rolled down his teacher’s temple. Mr. Hannock begged, “Please, I’ll do anything you want!” Braxton rolled his eyes; of course he would say that. What could his teacher even give him? Money? Braxton knew teachers got paid shit. “Shut up,” Braxton said before pulling the trigger.

The bullet traveled through Mr. Hannock’s skull, killing him instantly. Blood started pooling around his teacher’s head. Braxton kicked his head, just for good measure; you never know, people have survived headshot wounds before. Braxton huffed and looked around the room; he could hear the quiet sobs of his classmates that were still alive. Sobbing from the horror they just witnessed, and the wounds on their body. He didn’t even bother killing them instantly. He wanted them to sit with the pain; they were his experiments. He guessed they would most likely bleed out anyway. Plus, Braxton had to move quickly, so he didn’t have time to generously kill them instantly.

Braxton hurried out of the room; he guessed that everyone could’ve heard the commotion, and that the school would soon go on lockdown. He checked to make sure the book was in his back pocket. He wouldn’t want to lose his father’s favorite book. The book ‘Rage’ was written by Stephen King. But King wrote it under a pen name when he wrote it, for some reason. Braxton never looked into the reason why. The book was about a boy who held his classmates and teachers at gunpoint. Out of fear that it might inspire others, King pulled it from shelves. Making it an extremely rare and sought-after book. If something happened to it, he knew his father would be disappointed in him.

Braxton ran to another classroom and did it all over again. He watched as his classmates’ bodies recoiled from being shot, as they went plummeting to the floor. What they don’t tell you is that pulling the trigger and killing is surprisingly freeing, to Braxton at least. Felt like a breath of fresh air; it felt exhilarating. Braxton felt so free every time he pulled the trigger. He felt so free every time he watched his classmates and teachers’ blood splatter on the walls. Braxton felt like an eagle soaring in the wind, soaring over a river to catch some fish. He was the apex predator of the sky, of this school.

Unlike the stereotypes, Braxton was a popular kid. He had nearly no fear, and everyone loved watching him pull stunts. But what came along with that fear was a lack of regard for others. Braxton displayed low empathy; you could mainly see this in how he treated his past girlfriends. He was cruel to them, treated them like the animals he once dissected. Because, well, they were nothing more than pigs to him. Braxton was doing this because he simply felt like it, because he was inspired. After reading that book, it gave him a new idea, a new dangerous stunt to try.

Braxton could hear sirens in the distance; he knew he had to finish up. Braxton rushed to the cafeteria and could see the lowerclassmen hiding underneath tables. “Surprise!” He taunted them, holding out his arms, spreading them like an eagle’s wings. He walked over to the first table, and there was a girl hiding underneath it. Her face was as red as a tomato, and her eyes were puffy from crying. Braxton couldn’t help but think how pathetic she was. How fear was holding her back. He was without fear, and she was full of it.

She looked up at Braxton, and her eyes grew big. “No, no, no, no-.” She was cut off; Braxton shot her right in the neck. Her body went instantly back, and he heard noises as her lungs struggled to get a breath of air. She was nearly decapitated from the bullet traveling through the side of her neck, tearing the ligaments in her neck. He did the same to every single one of them hiding underneath the tables. Some would beg, some would cry, some would try to run. Every single one got shot, whether it was in the head, neck, chest, or somewhere else; they wouldn’t go out unscathed.

He made his way out of the cafeteria; the internal clock in his head was ticking; he knew he wouldn’t have much time left. Braxton adjusted his backpack on his shoulders; it was growing heavier as he ran around so much. Inside his backpack, he had more ammunition, locks, and a letter to his father that he wrote. In case he didn’t make it out alive. He planned to make it out alive; he wasn’t going to pussy out and blow his head off. He would cooperate with the cops; he might’ve been cocky, but he wasn’t stupid. Braxton knew he was going to jail for this stunt, but he didn’t care; he didn’t care about anything except his father.

His father meant a lot to him. As he made his way around the halls, he remembered how him in his father used to play hide and seek. This was the adult version of hide and seek; his victims would hide, and he would seek. He loved playing hide and seek as a kid; he loved to scare his father as he snuck up behind him, yelling ‘found you’ as loud as he could. Braxton was no longer that little boy; today he became a man. As said before, Braxton’s father said he could be anything, and Braxton chose to do this, to go down in history. After all, he got inspiration for this from his father’s precious book. After Braxton’s father let him read it the first time, Braxton became obsessed with it, hyperfixating on it. He could practically recite the book. His father loved it, loved that he and his son shared such a love for something. Braxton hoped his dad would understand, that this would make him proud.

Braxton decided to barricade himself in the gym, to spend his final moments of freedom in peace. Where he could just sit and take in his stunt as a whole. This was his most deadly stunt so far. But the biggest difference between this stunt and his others was that in his other stunts, his life was at risk, not others’. As he walked to the gym, he heard the sirens grow closer. Braxton fastened his pace, practically running towards the gym. Whoever was in that gym wasn’t going to make it out alive, just Braxton.

He finally made his way to the gym, and he opened the door. To his surprise, it was empty. Braxton shrugged, guessing that they all barricaded themselves in a different room. He took off his backpack and sighed in relief; it started to dig into his arms. He unzipped it and took out the locks that were inside. Braxton began to lock all the entrances to the gym, making sure they were secure. He knew that the police would push past them eventually when they came, but he wanted to take his work; he wanted it to soak in. Braxton set his belongings next to him. He sat on the floor, where the windows allowed the sunshine to peek through; he sat in it. Feeling the warmth of the sun hit him, this reminded him that he was truly alive.

He lay down on the floor, looking at his belongings next to him. He reached out and grabbed his book and smiled. As he heard the pounding on the doors, he just kept staring at the book. Without this book, without Stephen King, he would’ve never had the courage to do this.

A/N: Hi guys, so I changed my author’s note because it might come off as insensitive. I got inspiration from this piece after doing some digging on Stephen King and discovering the book ‘Rage’ by him. This is also inspired by the movie ‘We Need to Talk about Kevin’. All my articles are named after songs; this one is after a PJ Harvey song.