He felt the weight of the gun in his pocket, and let a smile crawl across his face as he walked into the mall. A small, dirty man of about fifty, no one gave him much thought as he passed them in the hall, turning for the bathroom. He entered a stall, locked the door, than pulled his gun out, making sure it was loaded and ready to go. The smile had disappeared, replaced with a cold smirk, a sense of finality. Exiting the stall, facing the mirror, he wondered why his pleas for help had all been ignored, thrown out like so much garbage. Maybe his grades had been good, but so good as to hide the pain etched on his face? He didn't think so.

Now that sort of help was behind him, and the only thing that could free him was death, a cold relief. A policeman's bullet in my brain, he sung to himself, that would do it.

He slowly stepped out of the bathroom, and opened fire.

Will You Ever Return To In Pace Requiescat!?