On April 20, 1999, the American conscience was seared as millions of heartbroken citizens watched the unthinkable stream across their TV screens.
Two students walked into my school, Columbine High School, and perpetuated pure evil, murdering 12 of my classmates and a brave teacher before killing themselves.
During the ordeal, I was hiding under a library desk, listening as the murderers taunted innocent people, killing at will like it was a game — some dark movie where they were the anti-heroes attempting to teach society a sick and twisted “lesson.”
My heart felt like it would beat out of my chest as the shooters killed my two friends, Matt and Isaiah, right next to me. Isaiah was going to be the first person in his family to graduate; instead, he spent his final moments being called racial slurs. Matt was, without a doubt, one of the nicest guys on the football team.
I thought I…
