Maybe

I sit in the school with Mrs. Meier, my math teacher, stands in front at the blackboard and writes down any formulas that I do not understand, 

I write them down anyway, so that I at least have the feeling to have been present, before I was not so bad in math as now, but by Mrs.. Meier it has become much more difficult. 

She always seems so incompetent, she has a bored appearance drooping shoulders quiet monotone voice no facial expressions like a math robot this role model coupled with the sun although it is still early in the morning already bangs on the room and turns it into a stuffy box of the last remnant of motivation that I have for this subject rotates into a yawning black hole.

To not fall asleep I have headphones in my ear a wireless plug that you can not see under my medium length hair, I listen to music just running pumped up kicks of foster the people; I look at the clock, although it seems to me as if I would already sit here for ages. 

Has just passed half an hour. 

Hopefully something will happen, maybe the fire alarm will go off or there will be a gas leak, but I hope for that every day when I have math.

Suddenly I hear a dull bang and am torn out of my trance. 

What was that asks, Rebecca a black-haired often somewhat stupidly acting of the classmates.

I look around the classroom at 25 equally confused faces. 

I carefully take out my headphones and let them disappear as inconspicuously as possible in my pocket. - surely a chair or table has tipped over somewhere. 

That happens sometimes when young people are not held in anger.

I know this sound from movies. 

These are gun shots. 

A certain aura moves through the class. 

I notice how some start to breathe faster,

others barely. 

Is it a rampage, runs through my head? People getting killed here pupils.

Teacher People that I know, others realize this, too, and panic spreads. 

But, no one talks, no one yells, there is not even someone to tell you what to do. 

Mrs. Meier stands rooted to the spot in front of the desk and stares at the door.

She is also in a panic, trying to realize what is happening. 

I don't do anything either, I just sit in my chair and look at the door. 

Please head do something get me out of this rigidity. 

Run away?

No, then he would get you, jump out of the window. 

No, then you break your neck hide yourself. 

Where? 

Some of my classmates are probably reacting more to survival instinct than any real planned action.

They flip their tables and take cover behind them.

The thin wooden boards would not repel the shots, but at least you feel safer. 

More shots this time Rebecca starts shrieking, yet not crying in pain. 

The spree killer is not there yet. 

Many have started crying, they know what is happening. 

They have read it in the newspaper, seen it on TV.

Crazy teenagers cut off from society with access to daddy's guns. 

No one would have expected that it would eventually hit their own school.

 I still sit motionless and can't move, like everyone else. 3 or 4 classmates have their cell phones out and are typing texts to their parents with trembling fingers.

 How much they love them! 

We are not even adults yet and are already confronted with death. 

We mess up the cycle. 

First the grandparents die, then the parents, and then you yourself. 

That is how it should be, that is how it is meant to be. 

Yet here are hundreds of children and young people sitting all over the school. 

For this to be over, could be the fear for their lives. 

Fear of not experiencing so many things. Fear of leaving their parents alone and shocked.

I imagine the spree killer tearing open the door and looking around the class with a determined expression on his face, then raising his gun and killing all my classmates and friends without batting an eye.

 It could be the quiet boy who was always chosen last in gym class and laughed at, or the fat boy whose mother died of alcoholism and he then distracted himself with sweets and was bullied because of his weight. 

Or a former student with an aggression problem who was expelled from school but was not offered any help.

Again some shots. 

He comes closer and closer. It sounds like he's on this floor in this hallway, just a few feet away from the classroom. 

We are prisoners here; we are surrendered to fate, like criminals being led to the scaffold. Only one decides over life and death. 

You could overpower him, you could hide in the closet. 

You could jump out of the window and hope that you only break a leg and not directly at your neck, but you are too weak for that. 

I look at my friends. 

Also they know nothing to do with themselves sit there waiting for death, but do not want to die. 

I spent the longest time of my life with him. 

I often imagined how we sit in the summer in the shade on the terrace and play poker as we have been doing for a few weeks. 

Maybe we would have had wives and children, maybe we would have had our own house, maybe we would have been famous. 

More shots, but less than usual. 

Is he running out of ammunition? As he directed himself. 

I go into myself and look for a solution. 

No one in this room does anything, no one stops the spree killer, not even Mrs. Meier, a teacher, an authority figure when you entrust someone with so much your education and your own future.

But it can't save the lives of dozens of innocent teenagers. 

No one can.

I hear heavy footsteps outside the door. Some students hope the spree killer will pass. 

In the meantime, I have come to terms with my life. I will die early. 

The handle is pushed down. 

I expect some loud gunshots that almost deafen me before the volley of bullets hits me.

I hope it goes quickly and I do not struggle for hours in the hospital with my parents give hope. 

Here are still some people alive, chief for a moment. 

Is time standing still? 

No shots, no one says anything. 

Then redemption breaks over us.

In the doorway stands a heavily armed man carrying a rifle, who lowers it when he sees us. On the black protective vest around his chest, the abbreviation police is written in white leaves.

 The troops had arrived in time. 

Mrs. Meier is the first to move again.

She approaches the policeman and speaks softly, almost in a scratchy voice. 

Then slowly my classmates start to stir. 

They write to their parents that they are safe, that they don't have to worry. 

They are coming home. 

A stone falls from my heart too. 

I feel the warm tears running down my face and wetting my T-shirt.

My best friend also comes crying and hugs me. 

We made it; we are still alive. 

Now we have to process this experience. 

We have to regroup. 

Have you ever been able to sit in a classroom without fear again? 

I don't care either. 

I'm just happy we survived. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a tall man with a large cap appear behind the policeman. 

Apparently the police chief or the head of the operation. 

How does it look the policeman asked. 

All are well. 

Only the shock sits, Deep we have already results? Yes, the spree killer shot two teachers. 

I and some others who unintentionally listened in on the conversation. 

Teachers you knew, whether you got along with them well or they were unfair and unfriendly, you do not wish such a thing to anyone, that is little, unfortunately. 

Yes, it will be reported in the media, but not internationally, it all went too smoothly for that. 

The commissioner lies a hand on the policeman's shoulder. 

You know what you have to do.

The policeman nods, and every single student looks up. 

What's going to happen now?

Can we go now?

We want to go to our parents.

But suddenly he raises the gun 

and starts to...

END...