I’ve heard you for years. Black gloved knuckles breaking window. White plastic card slinking through lock. Brown leather boots tiptoeing up carpeted stairs.
What I hear next, after the metallic click of your weapon, is always the sound of my voice. Not screaming, not begging. But talking you out of it.
Because I write fiction, you see.
And a fictive world, misterpresident and misterlawmaker, is the only place in the world where victims can say something to stop their shooters.
Very sincerely,
Novelist
P.S. If you see something, legislate something. 
