That’s a cold slap in the face.
As is my custom in the wake of a mass shooting, I try to avoid coverage of it. Mainly, it’s the talking heads that annoy me, yammering about what made the killer snap and who to blame for not catching them before they started firing. Personally, my answer to that is typically “He fell off his meds, or never got put on them in the first place, and try blaming him and not his mourning relatives.” ‘Cause you know what? I don’t care how pissed off you are about a certain person, or a certain clique, or a certain race, or a certain social class, or gender or orientation or what, if you reach the point that automatic weaponry seems a rational response, you have undeniably slipped a gear.
So, I avoided it. I knew in outline what was going on and didn’t care to know more.
I was at a coffee shop with my roommate yesterday and happened to glance at an open newspaper, and saw a name I recognized–guy I’d graduated from high school with. Decent sort of guy, but I really didn’t know him well. Out paths just generally didn’t tend to cross.
He was one of the teachers killed.
Did you ever really, literally, feel the blood drain from your face?