You run home as fast as you can, hopefully to safety. Your driver's license may not have a real address on it, but you remember where you live.
The front door is unlocked, like usual, and you run into the living room. Your mother sees you and screams.
"It's the crazed shooter from downtown!"
Your father comes running downstairs with his shotgun. Neither of your parents seem to recognize you. You realize you're still holding a high capacity handgun.
Your dad unloads both barrels of the shotgun into your chest. You go flying back out the door and expire with a bloody laugh. Your last words, if you were able to form them through the blood and spasms, would be,