When my daughter's black trench coat clad ex-boyfriend threatened to rape and kill her, the authorities at her sprawling high school didn't try to help us or "Trevor" (not his real name), her ex, despite my requests. My daughter and I didn't believe he'd actually ever carry out his threats, but we were concerned he might hurt himself.

Trevor was a handsome brooding boy in serious emotional turmoil, but he wasn't a bad kid. He wore studded collars, skull rings, piercings and black clothing with pride, and struggled with depression and thoughts of suicide. As is common with teens, he often confided in me, his girlfriend's mother, rather than his own parents. "They wouldn't understand," he said. "I'm not sure I understand myself." The limited interaction I'd had with his mother led me to believe she was genuinely concerned, but I soon found out she had troubles of her own.

Days after my daughter broke up with him, Trevor's stepfather barricaded himself inside the family home, holding Trevor's mother hostage at gunpoint. I can only imagine what his home life must have been like before that moment. I offered Trevor moral support that night as he paced the police blockade. I was the only adult who did. During that ordeal, he struggled with two understandable reactions. First, terror at the thought his mother might be dead. Then, anger: How could she align herself with such an unstable companion to begin with?

A few weeks later, it was Trevor who seemed to take a similar, unstable turn. He occasionally acted restless and almost predatory when he was with my daughter, circling her like an animal, even as they talked just outside my home. "I want you to hate me," he told her. "I want you to hate me so I can hate you. I don't want to care." When he threatened to rape her during a late-night telephone conversation -- so she'd hate him -- and when that rape threat then escalated to murder, I knew it was time to see that he got some help. I also knew his natural father had promised Trevor an antique Colt .45 for his 18th birthday. It was his legacy, a family tradition. In very little time, Trevor would have the means to let his fantasies evolve into reality.

Imagine the hurricane of emotions Trevor must have felt as he gave voice to these violent thoughts, as he expressed his most angry fantasies. Imagine the same kind of dark reflections swirling in the minds of Columbine's outcast seniors, Harris and Klebold, and perhaps thousands of other troubled kids. They are on the fringe, disenfranchised and tortured by feelings of uncertainty, inadequacy and total lack of control over their lives. If they struggled alone, inadvertently neglected by parents who had more obligations than they had time, these kids would be in serious jeopardy.

Now consider the quiet panic that crossed my mind when I recognized the very real possibility that my daughter was in danger. She had become the focus of all of Trevor's immediate rage and she was scared. We made the decision to call the high school counselors the next morning. I believed they would address the issue immediately and make sure he received the help and support he needed to deal with his pain. To my dismay, they did not. When I summarized the late-night telephone exchange -- emphasizing that I knew this kid very well and cared about him, that he was more prone to suicide than outward violence -- they opted to call the police, not the boy's therapist or parents. They handed out warnings and threats, rather than counseling. When his mother finally was notified by the school, she didn't seem to acknowledge any problem at all.

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