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Generation why
By PunkNerd
“Suicide is not the answer. It is not our answer. It is theirs. Suicide is giving up. Suicide is admitting defeat. War is about winning. We are in war. Social war. We will win.”
Wesley Patterson let his cold gray eyes wander about his room. Two others sat with him. Coal Chamber, Manson, and many others kept their paper eyes cast down, as if deciding judgment upon them. The posters were all hung somewhat haphazardly, a controlled disarray. Wes had given in to the stereotypes, unwittingly. Any kid that had streaks of pink and blue through his black as night hair had to be a little off balance. Any kid who wore a skirt to the school dance had to hang stuff up diagonally. Any kid who was ridiculed daily and beat weekly had to harbor murderous tendencies. Yes, the little scrawny, bisexual goth rock boi had given in to these media and society assumptions.He hung his posters crooked, and he wanted to kill.
“Our answer is murder. It is the only way to be heard. We can all agree on that.”
A chorus of multicolored, heads bobbed up and down in agreement.
“Tomorrow is our day. Tomorrow we get retribution. Tomorrow we make them pay.”
Ashley Tellso nodded her head again. She wasn’t an ugly girl, just an unusual one. Wearing big black framed buddy holly glasses and not being interested in boys was enough to make everyone hate you apparently. She slowly drew her ripped fishnet clad legs underneath her, Wes’ bed moving creaking with her movements. The bed sounded how she felt. Old. Tired. Sick of it all. She was sick. She was sick of being laughed at in the hallways, she was sick of being laughed at in the gym showers. She was sick of it all. Sick enough to kill.
Wes moved to his closet, the shuttered doors creaking as his bed did as they were forced open. Three guns were pulled out. Wes didn’t know what kind of guns they were, and he didn’t care. The guns were not important. Anyone who thought the guns were important was going to miss the poetry and reason for what the three would do tomorrow. They would not understand. They would not be part of the revolution. The unimportant guns were slowly distributed.
Kent Refferton slowly reached for his gun. It was big, and heavy. It was black and dull. The light did not reflect off of it. The light merely avoided it all together. Kent could understand how the gun felt. His parents were never home. They were far to important people to listen to their son. They were way to high society to be with him. Kent was the odd man out of the group. He was the quarterback for varsity. He had always been friends with Wes. As long as he could remember. Wes was his cousin. In fact they were born in the same hospital. The same night. They were born together and they would die together. Kent had never been made fun of, but he had scene his cousins’ pain. He knew how he felt. His parents did the same thing to him. Emotionally. Emotions were a big part of everyone. Emotions could not be neglected. Kent would show his parents. Their little popular boy, who was following in their misguided and blinded by green footsteps. He would show them. He would show everyone.
“Ready?”
Wes barley even heard himself. With a nod of their heads, Ashley and Kent agreed. There was no turning back now. They would begin the revolution, and end it in the same day.
Kents parents sat on their couch that afternoon, embracing each other. They cried. For all the wrong reasons. They cried when they thought about how their high class friends would react. They cried because Kent would never go to college, and complete his transformation into their image they had made for him. They cried as their eyes blindly read the text on the bottom of the T.V. screen.
SCHOOL SHOOTING ROCKS BEVERLEY HILLS: 37 DEAD, INCLUDING GUNMEN.
7/9/2002 12:40:55 AM
(Updated: 7/9/2002 5:20:58 AM)
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