Jamie Thomas, 16 Nov '12

"Gott ist tott."

That's what Nietzsche said. It means "God is dead."

And he is. To me at least.

Before it happened, I used to listen to moody singers like Morrissey or Lana Del Rey when I was down. Now, I listen to them non-stop. Hearing Lana Del Rey croon "Me and God, we don't get along" and "It's innocence lost" just sums up my mood lately.

I pour another whiskey, and knock it back. My half-closed and puffy eyes begin to water, and I wipe them for the hundredth time today. Like the singers pouring their hearts out over my speakers, the whiskey had also become a constant. This is basically what my life has descended into after the shootings.

In my head, I replay the sound of gunfire. Screaming and shouting. I feel the cold barrel of the gun pressed into my temple.

"Do you believe in God?" He had asked.

Before that moment, I did. When he asked, I slipped into agnosticism. When my friend kneeling beside me began praying to God, I stayed silent. Then the trigger was pulled and the side of my face suddenly felt warm and wet. I don't remember looking at the blood. I just remember realising that God was dead. There was no God there. I muttered those fateful words and then he told me to repeat myself. Saying "God is dead" out loud, with such conviction is probably what saved my life.

I pour another whiskey. Knock it back, and blink before I wipe the whiskey tears away. The whiskey doesn't stop my mind from taking me back to that day, at the school, but it makes it seem less real. No amount of drugs or alcohol will stop me from reliving the day when everyone died, taking God with them. I purge again, as is ritual now. The colour of my vomit sitting in stark contrast to the whiteness of the toilet bowl.

Another whiskey. Knock it back. Wipe eyes. The song has changed now. Some teen rebellion track is blaring, a singer recounting messy drunken nights and being devoid of compassion and life. I sing along with "God, put down your gun, can't you see we're dead?". More whiskey tears to wipe away. My mind relives the devastating and defining image of my once pristine white school shirt, now stained crimson, ruined by the blood of my friends. The poster child for loss of innocence.

I think back to my philosophy classes again, before it all happened. Nietzsche was right. God wasn't there to stop that boy from bringing a gun. God wasn't there to save all the people who died. God wasn't even there to put me out of my misery. God wasn't there, because he was dead.

Whiskey. Knock back. Tears. Wipe away.

God is dead, and he will be dead forever.