When I Was 18 I Almost Beat A Boy To Death, And I Think I’m About To Pay For What I Did

Anthony pulled up the next picture. This one was of the kid a few years older, his bony arm in a cast, his face showing a frown that looked like it hadn’t flexed a smile in years.

“When you have a disorder like that, your bones become brittle, but that still doesn’t stop the bullies. And when you don’t have an older brother, a father, someone with a dick to stand up for you or even show you how to stand up, you don’t know what to do. You just hurt and cry and hope you die.”

I let out a deep, annoyed breath, hoping it would send a message. All it prompted was the next picture. This one of a teenage boy whose face started to take the shape of one I recognized. I started to figure out who this was.

In the picture, the boy had gone goth, replaced his Leonardo and Donatello green shirt with a dark black Marilyn Manson one, his rosy cheeks for a pale and gaunt face and his blonde bowl cut for a black buzz cut. The boy now stood in a snow-dusted playground in a dark trench coat with headphones stuck to his ears like ear muffs as he stared down at the hard asphalt.

“At first you cope by tuning out, turning away and trying to rebel by being like the other weirdos who you think are like you, but it doesn’t work that way. You end up just being a loner, but it’s okay, because you find your own way. Life finds a way to make your disorder not as bad as it used to be. You can finally do something to break through it and distract from the pain of the past. You start going to the gym. You start to notice girls notice you. You laugh at someone who you think you want to be some day in traffic hoping they will pick up on what you think is funny and laugh along, but then things get dark again.”

Jack has written professionally as a journalist, fiction writer, and ghost writer. For more information, visit his website.

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