"It makes me really sad to hear him asking if they've "picked up anyone yet", because... well, he was thinking his son was in HUGE trouble, but he didn't realize he was about to lose his son completely. "

-Eric's father talking to 911 operators.

I was up till 6 AM last night, stalking every Columbine board on the internet. I have compiled a folder 362 MB full of video and audio and text documents of, well... you know.
And it keeps growing. There are 11,000 pages of documents known as the Columbine Report. Why, yes, I DO intend on reading all the pages. It's mainly just testimonials and the like, but there is the occasional gem, like the little insights from Dylan's parents. Dylan took French for three years. Sue Klebold (his mother) said she saw him cry only one time (during childhood, I mean). He came home, crying quietly, and went into his room, pulled out a box of stuffed toys, and buried himself underneath the toys, falling asleep. Those things really stuck out to me. And that stuff is easily accessible, if people just took twenty minutes to read it. So many harsh judgments...

I'm having a harder time writing now. I think I've begun to see them as the killers they were, and not boys that my love could have saved.

"People don't usually understand just how psychopathic Dylan was. This was a child who was so mentally lonely, depressed, and obsessive, that he had conceived an imaginary entity that he believed only existed in the afterlife, and that his journey in life was dedicated to finding it."

And that has never sounded more truer than it does today, after all my weeks of research.

I liked writing my story. It gave me something to look forward to. I felt free when I wrote it, thinking, "so what if I sound conceited? So what if this is all bullshit that won't matter four months from now?" I let myself take solace in the fact that what I was doing was normal. But when I hit around 36 pages, the realization hit me: I'm writing about serial killers and how I try to make their lives better, with the constant knowledge of what they were capable of. I am ashamed.

But that doesn't mean I'll stop. I won't stop till I'm finished, and I'll finish when I'm done. And when I'm done... I'll know it. I'll have nothing left to say, nothing left to want and my own opinion will be discovered. And it will end. What will I do with the document? Who knows. Maybe delete it. Stick it on a CD, let it collect dust or use it as a coaster, or let it sit in my computer where it will go unread.

And the more I read, the more I find myself switching sides. Here, I find myself siding with the killers.

"On this day, my precious daughter, Rachel Joy Scott, would be cruelly martyred for her faith in Jesus Christ and go to heaven."

That's NOT what happened.
If this nit wit had the courage to fucking READ, or to open her fucking EYES, she would know that there was no target. Shooting, shooting, shooting. A round. There were 188 total rounds fired. 121 from Eric, 67 from Dylan. It was random shooting. Your daughter was a wonderful person. I am absolutely sure of it. But to think that she was targeted simply because of her faith is doing only one thing: creating a sense of peace in your mind. You only want to believe that she had reason to die. And maybe she did.

You just have to keep digging.
Imagine yourself everywhere.