He was a dancer. The way his body moved, like liquid silver, like mercury, like molten gold, enchanted anyone who watched. Twice a week, he took his little sister to dancing lessons, and he danced with her. He payed for her lessons, and never had enough money left over to take lessons himself. He wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. But so did his sister, and he loved her.
He wasn't tall, or muscular, and he hadn't gotten particularly good grades in school. He wasn't handsome, with too-large eyes, small face, and his dark, uneven haircut. He was always tired, working too hard because he had dropped out of school to get a job.
But he was a dancer. You could see by how he walked, graceful and nimble. He walked without a sound, like a panther, treading lightly and careful where to step. How his long, thin fingers clutched tightly around his sister's. He had dancer's hands. His sister had them, too.
And he wanted more from life.
He had dropped out of school because he needed more time at work, but that wasn't the only reason. He also did it because of the bullying. They called him a fag. It bothered him, but it was true. They made him feel like what he was was wrong, and they made him hate himself. They convinced him he wasn't normal.
But he was.
And he was a dancer.
To this day, he still wouldn't remember where he got the gun. He wouldn't remember the names of the people he shot, the people he murdered, even though he asked for every one. And they told him, too, because they thought it would save their lives.
It didn't.
And he wouldn't remember why he did what he did. He would regret it, because that's who he was. He was not violent. But that night, it wasn't him. It wasn't him. He still wouldn't be sure how it had happened. He had lost control.
It was that pill they gave him. He was sure of it. The pill with the word "sky" on it. The pill they called "ecstasy." They said it would make him feel amazing, make him forget about his life for a while. They had lied.
"Ecstasy" had only made him feel worse. So somehow, he got a gun.
He hadn't even though about his sister, the sister he loved so much. The sister who needed him, the sister whose dancing lessons he was paying for. The sister who couldn't live without him. He would think of her later, surely.
But he was nothing but a dancer.
When his nimble fingers, his dancing fingers, pulled the trigger the first time, he felt empowered. He was in control now. So he shot again, and again, and again. He heard the screams around him, and finally he couldn't take the pain that surrounded him, was inside of him.
So with tears on his face, he pulled the trigger one last time.
He was only a dancer anyway.
ns 15.158.61.20da2
