It felt different than her parents described—the darkness. Isis stood in a dark cavern, waiting for the inevitable. She knew what would happen if she entered the Malevolent One's home, but she had to save them. Save them, she thought. What a joke. A burning sensation ripped through Isis' gut. She doubled over in pain. The sensation rippled through her body, reaching all the way up to her throat, choking her. Her skin felt hot to the touch. Isis looked down at her burning flesh and saw crimson flecks on her skin. The flecks grow bigger and bigger until a red light burst from her skin, lighting the cavern walls around her in a crimson hue.

The light dimmed until it disappeared. Isis tried to stand up straight. She felt different and powerful. She was so powerful that her body was shaking, but that was not the most concerning part. She felt cold and empty. She thought about them, her parents, and felt nothing. She cannot even remember why she would come here to save them in the first place.

I drop to the floor of the school cafeteria when a gunshot rings throughout the room. My face slams against the cool, hard floor so hard that I taste blood. Another gunshot goes off. I hear screams this time—kids crying out for their parents. I am silent. I build up the confidence to look in the direction of the shooter. Two more gunshots. This time, I see the faces of the victims, Zach Millerton and Ronnie Pearson. Suddenly, everything makes sense. I should have known; I should have seen the signs. A sense of eerie calm washes over me. The shooter is my best friend, Max Blythe. ... 10 more minutes. 10 more minutes until lunch duty is over. The school district should hire more personnel for this instead of forcing teachers to be on duty during their free periods. My feet ache as I watch students interact with their peers. A student waves and greets me, "Hi, Mr. Blythe!" I wave back. I hear screams coming from the other side of the cafeteria. I snap my head in that direction, preparing to break up a fight, when I see him. A gunshot hits my coworker and fellow teacher in the head. I instinctively drop to the ground. My body goes cold, and my pulse starts racing. How could I not know? How could he do this? Before I could reason with myself, two more gunshots rang through the cafeteria. My son shot my coworker in the head. My son is the shooter.