Click. He pulled on the gun, locking the bullet into place. "This is it. It's my time now everyone." the boy said to himself, barely above a whisper. He smiled to himself and laughed for a few short seconds before heading towards the staircase. As he walked, his heavy black boots steadily climbed the steps, counting them as he had almost everyday for the past 3 years. "1..2..3..4.." He turned and walked down a long narrow hallway that was empty, and stopped in front of the rusty orange metal door that was labeled: ROOM 227A. Palms hot and sweaty, he almost backed out, but he didn't. He couldn't. He reached for the gun. "Showtime." His boot kicked the old door and it flew open wildly, a dozen pair of eyes looking curiously at the enraged boy. Then 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 shots are fired. People are screaming, everyone is bleeding, dying. The bullets echo soundlessly as the boy screams helplessly "THIS IS IT. THIS IS MY TIME. HOW DO YOU ALL FEEL NOW?" He stops. No one is moving. He looks around at the bloody massacre he created, and loads a single bullet into the blood-stained gun. Before he pulls the trigger one last time, a single hot, salty tear rushes down his face, burning his cheek. He chokes on his words saying "I did it mama. I've finally got all the power now." Bang. Lights start fading, and eyes are closing slowly. More screams and sirens. Crying. Then silence. Nothing.