((Hansel Williams, That big tough boy on the side of right? That's me.
Years ago, Hansel had walked down shiny, linoleum tiles, his gaze passing over students he'd known, talked to, sometimes even liked. Years ago, he'd sat in the back of the class, his biggest concern being called on and asked to read sections, stuttering and mumbling through Shakespeare, through Don Quixote, through an entire debate on whether or not Da Vinci was the true renaissance man. Years ago, Hansel had noticed, smiled at, hoped for, a certain girl.
Now, he was here, confronted by that same girl with blood pooling at her mouth, surrounded by the corpses of two of those classmates. Juhan and Takeshi hadn't been friends of his by a long stretch, but they were dead. Dead at Mirabella's feet.
That meant something to him, and even as the danger of the situation closed in on him, he found himself wanting - needing - some form of closure from those years and years contained in days. Of all the people still left alive and breathing here, he hadn't expected anyone to remain innocent or untarnished, but his image of Mirabella - the girl, the beautifully shy girl in his english class - had stayed true somewhere in the recesses of his mind.
The fragrance of her perfume on prom night, when he'd shoved his flowers into Garrett's chest and walked away, willing himself not to feel
, still haunted him.
But this... person, standing here, covered in gore and grinning, wasn't Mirabella. Not his image of her.
And for some reason, he was compelled to smash it. To ruin it. Make it so that this spectacle, seeing her here, disappeared, and he could still remember those years and years contained in days when she was just the girl who got away.
So he lifted his Winchester, stepped into the open, and pointed it at her torso.
Unlike Chris, unlike Marcus, unlike Kyle and Mallory and Leona and Daniel, he allowed himself a moment's hesitation.
Then, he pulled the trigger.