When I was 19, my boyfriend and I, his best friend and his girlfriend were invited to a childhood friend’s family home for an evening by the lake. Evidently the mild-mannered, nervous boy I had known as a child had grown into a violent man, but we were unaware. We were also unaware of the arsenal just 20 feet from the front door.
Our night of frivolity turned sour, and I ended up running through the woods barefoot to a neighbor’s house after I wrestled a rifle away from our host. Everyone ran from the house, but my boyfriend’s friend was worried about our host’s mother and returned to the house to save her. Our host ended up grabbing another firearm, this time a handgun, and shot my boyfriend’s best friend to death.
The shooter’s mom made the 911 call. She had to tell the dispatcher her son had shot a boy in their kitchen. How heartbreaking for two families. Turns out the shooter was known for his violent breaks from reality, but his stepfather didn’t think twice about a room full of guns displayed on his study walls, floor to ceiling. That’s not responsible, or, right, is it?