Exhilaration

I have a dream.


A blaze of bullets were flying all across the classroom. The sounds were angry and deafening. The scent of smoke and metal hung adrift. Two students were in the back of the classroom, laying themselves on the ground, behind an upturned table. Two students alive . . . and the rest were dead. Well, except for one other student, whom was holding the Kalashnikov in his arms. The two in the back were holding on for dear life as they were sitting ducks in the haze of 7.62s. Hope rested upon them if one, the maniac empties all of his three clips on random shooting; two, if any of the stray killers don't ricochet or pierce; and three, if the maniac doesn't stop to realize he can go inside the classroom and check for anyone still left with a face. In short, the odds were against them.


However, it isn't your typical ambition.


I was washing my hands in the lavatory when the shooting started. It was a sharp piercing sound that rattled on continuously for about five seconds. What followed was a barrage of screams for about three seconds. Then a dis-harmonic combination of the two for about three seconds. And then, silence. I was so nervous, so thrilled-- I couldn't turn the knob of the sink. I could only look at my pale face in the mirror, and it was ghastly. I was sweating terribly, my eyes were wide with fear, and my mouth was-- smiling.


I've always wanted something to happen, something exciting.


The maniac stopped shooting and stepped inside the room. The smoke sizzled against the iron smell of blood in the air. His leather soles were stepping on what was left of eighteen students perforated to dust. He slowly walks over to the back where he hears a small but critical sound. The maniac smirked and heard breathing. And quickly, pointed the Kalashnikov at an upturned table, about to pull the trigger.


Something to take me away from the mundane.


The two students were terrified and, without any other choice, accepted their fate. But to their surprise, they heard the maniac jolt back in pain, screaming to the top of his lungs as the Kalashnikov dropped down to the floor in a resonating thud. I didn't even do anything, really. I just punctured his neck with a sharp stick of chair debris, smiling as I did it. His blood spouted and splattered all over the floor, and after a few seconds, he laid still on the ground. The students, in instinct, ran to the hallway; only to be surprised by another student, this time wielding a Gal. When I heard the rattling sound, sharp and piercing, I smiled even wider. Quickly I grabbed the Kalashnikov and rushed, turning quickly to the hallway. I pumped the student full of lead without him even moving a muscle to retaliate. The smoke cleared and I was panting. Then I heard police sirens outside, and I thought my smile couldn't stretch any wider.


And I've found it.


I dropped the Kalashnikov and picked up the Gal, and the two magazines in the student's pocket. I ran down the stairs and saw the empty classrooms. The two maniacs must have been the only perpetrators, but now that I'm holding the gun, they're going to suspect it's me. Should I drop the gun and play my true role as a victim? They can't pin me to this crime. But--why would I drop this gun? Why--this is the most fun I've had in my whole life. This is the turning point of everything: the thrill, the excitement, the fear, the adrenaline kicking in, everything I'm feeling right now! I can't go back to a boring life. I can't. This--this is living.


All I needed was a little kick.


I was already on the ground floor when the police started with their "This is the police. . ." thing. Their voices seemed like they were muffled, as if my senses were being drained by the thrill, and this feeling, this exhilaration was ecstasy. So, I held my gun tight and ran out the back. Only two officers have infiltrated the back. They couldn't react in time before the bullets reached them. I had two full clips left. The ones in the front heard the shots and rushed through the main door, the others through the sides. So I ran for the back curb and crossed the street, there were barely any cars near. The officers followed me as I went through the alleyway.


And here I am.


But here I was on the edge of my seat; the alleyway was a dead end. I saw their shadows; there were probably eight or nine officers in the darkness. Heck, there was probably the whole army out for me there. I was cornered, and Death had my head under his guillotine. And yet, why-- why when I'm about to die do I feel as if it's the only moment that I've actually lived? This euphoria wrings my heart to beat faster than a hummingbird's. It's the symphony of life. I could die here right now. But I'm not going down without a fight. Because this fight, this is my most exciting moment in life. This is my life's conclusion-- and if not, if Life permits me another day, then I will live and keep on living. I will live each day to the fullest: how I want to live it, and how I should live it. Their shadows came closer. All I knew right then, right there in that exact moment was that--I was smiling.


I have a dream.

However, it isn't your typical ambition.

I've always wanted something to happen, something exciting.

Something to take me away from the mundane.

And I've found it.

All I needed was a little kick.

And here I am.