Author's Notes: This story would be considered to be very disturbing by most, so if you can't handle disturbing stuff like realistic horror movies, etc., then you'd probably better not read this.
Harry Worthington the third was going to show them, all of them. His parents, his teachers, all of them. But most of all, his peers. He'd gone to private schools all his life until recently. His "all knowing" parents had decided that he should experience so called "real life" in an inner city school. At the time he thought it had been foolishness. The people he would be forced to be around in school, he was sure he would never have to deal with in the family accounting business. So, at the time, he had assumed it would be something he would just have to endure, to humor his mother and father. He would still have his social status and his friends, right?
Wrong. His "friends" had hung him out to dry once he wasn't an influence in their private school anymore. And as for social status, the public school kids saw him for what he was, a spoiled rich kid. His personality was lacking and his past grades were created by his parents' money, not his brains. The most physical exertion he'd done in his life was an occasional game of bowling, leaving him rather round around the middle. His protruding red cheeks and acne covered face left him standing alone at the prom. The only thing he did have that his fellow students cared about was money, and they had quickly taken that from him.
Everything might have been ok if he'd just accepted it and moved into the background. Instead he'd decided that if he kept acting like he still had his old social status, the others would simply have to accept it.
He came home regulatory battered and bleeding. At first, he assumed his parents would do the right thing and sue his tormentors. His parents had informed him that they would do no such thing so that he could learn an important lesson.
Now, after the prom, he'd finally had enough. The shotgun felt good in his hands. The handguns would insure that the "lesson" would continue after the shotgun ran dry of ammo. He stepped into the fist classroom and let the first shot fly. He sneered at their futile attempts to scramble out of the way. Several threw themselves out of the window. They screamed as they cut their hands, they screamed as the pieces of hot metal slammed into them. They screamed as they died. Harry laughed and fired until he was the only one left alive in the room. He had to stop finally, he was out of people to kill, out of ammo, and his asthma was flaring up and he'd forgotten his inhaler back in his car. With the weight of an elephant on his chest, and a complete lack of conscience, he stumbled back into the hallway to start on the next room.
Carrie Anne Creed pushed the black hair out of her eyes. She squinted through her slightly stylish, oval shaped glasses. Her notes, mostly doodles of dragons and gargoyles, were starting to blur. Her glasses needed cleaning. She was still getting used to wearing them, just sixteen and she needed glasses. Years of staying up late to read when she was younger had ruined her eyes earlier than had been expected. Her mother had told her that she looked cute with glasses. Cute was not what Carrie wanted, it was hard to be a Goth when you looked "cute." She tugged on the hem of her black shirt, her own drawing of a fire-breathing dragon on the back. Her black shorts hung between her knees and ankles. She shuffled her black, logo-less shoes against the metal leg of her desk. Her black, digital, men's watch beeped. She slapped her hand over it, glancing around to see if it had bothered anyone. She glared down at the watch and then frowned.
10:36? My watch isn't set for now…
There was a sudden commotion by the door, which she ignored. The girl beside her, one of the cheerleaders that often snubbed Carrie, screamed. Carrie glanced up in time to hear the bang, and see the left side of the cheerleader's face vanish. The girl's remaining eye blinked, her expression trapped in shock, and she slumped forward onto her desk, the life gone from her body.
Carrie glanced to the doorway, half recognizing the boy standing there, a shotgun in his uncallused hands. He looked directly at her and aimed down the length of the barrel. He jerked back on the trigger. She saw the puff of smoke and then nothing. She whipped her head around, trying to see if the shot had hit someone else. Everyone was scrambling out of the way. A guy scrambled past her when the back of his head disappeared in an explosion of brain and bone. For a moment, it was like there was two of him. One who had been shot, and another who was unharmed. He glanced over at her.
"Carrie?" And he vanished.
Carrie had a sudden morbid thought and looked behind her. There, stretched out on the desk behind her like a biology experiment, was her own body, her chest a bloody mess. She could see her own heart.
"Sorry I'm late." Setting in the desk her body was laying on was a boy about her own age. He had spiky black hair and shades that looked more like goggles. A silvery gray film that Carrie couldn't believe he could possibly see through colored the lenses. "Congratulations, you're dead."
"What? What's going on? Who are you?" Carrie demanded, jumping to her feet.
"Well, let's see. You're dead. This is a school shooting in progress. I'm your own personal death and guide for your soul in the afterlife until your time of judgment.
Carrie blinked. "Who are you?"
"I just told you. For you, I'm death." He stood and stretched his arms towards the ceiling. "Everyone has their own unique heaven, hell, life, death and soul. You're the soul, I'm death. Your life is over and we're about to go find out about the whole heaven/hell thing. Call me Suicide, if you need a name."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't my first choice either. Hey, want to see something cool?"
"Uh… Okay." Carrie agreed. There was something odd about this guy that calmed her. She didn't even argue with him about being dead, how could she? There was her corpse, laid out on a school desk with it's insides over the next few isles. A sudden rasping breath made her turn around. There was the guy who shot her, leaning against the door frame, trying to catch his breath. Even as his mouth opened and closed like a fish, she could still see his sneer twisting his pale lips. A sudden feeling of anger welled up inside her.
"Ya know, this was the first class he came to. Now he's going to move to the next room and do the same there."
Like before, Suicide's voice somehow calmed her. Her rage was replaced with a sudden anxiousness. "Can we do anything to stop him?"
"'We' aren't doing anything. I'm not allowed to directly interfere with mortal matters, and in case you haven't noticed, you're dead."
"We can't just let him kill more people!"
"Why not? Maybe they'll be better off dead."
"How can you say that?"
"It's what you were thinking, wasn't it?" Suicide leaned forward, showing his sharp teeth off in a smile. "Just before your watch beeped you were thinking it, weren't you? That you'd be better off dead?"
"I… I guess I might have… Yes, yes I did think it. Is that so wrong? To have a moment of doubt?"
"No." Suicide rocked back on his heels. "No I guess it doesn't." He stepped around her. "You can't judge people by what they think, or what they say. Only by what they do." He left the bloody room and stepped out into the hallway, actually walking through the shooter.
Her killer took a few more rasping breaths and stumbled into the hallway. Carrie steeled herself and followed him.
In the hallway Suicide leaned against the lockers, each locker painted in the schools colors. He had his left hand stuffed in his pocket and his right hand tapping out a rhythm. He didn't look at Carrie, his goggle-like shades faced towards the shooter.
"We've got to stop him." Carrie tried one last time.
"We can't. It's a moot point anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"In a place like this, do you really think he's the only one who brought a gun to school?"
Carrie's head snapped around as the shooter pulled open the door to the next room. Before he could even bring his shotgun up or whip out his pistol, three shots rang out like a church bell at a funeral. His body dropped to the floor as his soul stood all by itself. He turned slowly towards Carrie and Suicide. Suicide smiled and waved cheerfully at him. There was a look of utter shock on his face that suddenly changed to horror.
The shadows seemed to pull themselves off the floor and shape themselves into humanoid bodies. There was something sickening wrong with them though. The heads were misshapen and not into proportion to their bodies. Their fingers were long and pointed like claws. Their feet melted into the floor. They made an odd warbling sound that sounded like-
"Stop laughing at me!" He yelled. Then he screamed as one reached out and grabbed his arm, it's claws digging into him. The other's quickly started grabbing, each one's claws digging into his soul. Their demonic laughter blotted out his screams. There was a sound like wads of wet toilet paper ripping and his screams stopped.
"Oh God! They're tearing him apart! Why are they-"
"Some people don't need to be judged to go to hell."
"But why are they tearing him apart?"
"Ever heard the term 'going to hell in a hand basket'?"
With a sickening crunch, one of the shadows snapped the shooter's head all the way around and then pulled it off. With their horrible laughter still echoing in Carrie's ears they sunk back into the floor.
Suicide slapped Carrie on the back. "So, feeling better?"
"I feel like I'm going to be sick!"
"Good?! What do you mean 'good?'"
"Well, what would it say about you if you felt satisfied with his punishment for killing you?" Carrie couldn't see through his shades, but she would swear he rolled his eyes. "So are you ready?"
"Ready for what?"
Carrie found herself standing in line. She couldn't quite make out the people in front and behind her. She inwardly smiled at the thought that her glasses might need cleaning. Suicide stood beside her, tapping his foot. There was a soft singing in the background. She had the feeling she'd heard the song before, she just couldn't remember where. It had the same calming effect as Suicide's voice.
"I don't like this place." Suicide grated his teeth. "I'm sure you can make it through the line without me. Good luck and good bye."
"Suicide, wait!" She reached out, grabbing his shoulder as he turned to leave.
"Could you… stay with me? Till I'm judged anyway?"
He sighed and shook his head. "Fine."
"Want to talk?"
"Not really." He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
"Okaaay… How about we just learn about each other?"
"Your name is Carrie Anne Creed. Your cat's name is Rei. You're sixteen as of two months ago. Your favorite color is neon pink. You wear a b-cup bra, even though it's too big for you. Your best friends thought you were a boy until you were all eight or so. When you were six you stole-"
"OK! OK!" Carrie shouted. "How about I just ask you questions?"
"Uhm… What's hell like?"
"Care to be a little more definite?"
"Each soul has its own personal hell that it experiences, over and over again. They're not allowed to go crazy or grow numb to it. Every time they experience it is like the first time, but with the memory of all those who came before and the despair of all those yet to come. It's really bad."
"Oh…" Carrie wasn't sure how to respond, or even if she should. "So what's heaven like?"
"I don't know." Suicide shrugged. "They don't let me in there."
Suicide's brow knitted. "They don't like me there. Well, are you ready?"
"Ready for what?"
"NEXT!" A voice boomed.
Carrie looked in front of her. All the faceless people were gone. Her mind started racing over the description of hell Suicide had given her. For the first time since dieing, she was scared. Her knees shaking, she stepped forward, being careful not to look up.
"My name is…" Her voice broke. She felt a pat on her shoulder and turned slightly to see Suicide smiling at her. She smiled and chocked back her fear. "My name is Carrie Anne Creed."