It had happened two weeks ago to the day. A bloody massacre that resulted in thirty deaths, five injuries, and hundreds of broken hearts. The guy who did it is dead now, shot himself at the scene. In some ways, I'm slightly envious of him. He did the damage, and didn't have to deal with the aftermath. All of the tears, the pain, and the guilt. The classroom that it happened in was two doors down from mine. Of course, I'm constantly thinking about how it could have been me and thinking about how truly fragile life really is, but it's hard to be grateful that your heart is still beating when the people you grew up with are buried in the ground and on a daily basis you have to see the pain that the families are going through. The graves were finally finished, and if you take a moment to look past the tragedy, they actually are beautiful. Flowers and crosses all around shiny tombstones illuminated by candles. But when you take a step back and se the families and friends with their tear streaked faces mourning, it takes away the beauty. It'll take a lot of time, but all of us will eventually go back to living life normally. Until then, we'll just be envious of the dead.