The small town rang in a symphony of instant messages, text messages, emails, and calls made the night before at the time of the little boy’s passing. He was only in eighth grade and suffered when his heart failed at the hospital that night. Students stood around a large quilt they spent their seven-hour school day piecing together. They went around telling memories they shared with the deceased. One girl kept quiet, having no good memories to share. Her mind raced back to a day when she’d never felt so self-conscious, so embarrassed, so resentful of this boy.
She walked with a slight hunch in her back, arms crossed over her abdomen, sight fixed on the floor. Her eleven-year-old body was thin, but not too thin. She was draped with snow white skin and had cheekbones stained pink. Shuffling into each class with her head tilted down, the girl was nervous with the thought of twenty-something other students laying eyes on her. This familiar fear is one she experienced six times each day.
She could care less for choir class, but her only other option was band. On the agenda today was some corny musical on tape, one only elementary students would take any kind of liking to. Two boys sat beside her, both mischievous in nature. Insightful of how immature boys could be at her tween age, the girl tried to keep her distance.
“Look at this girl,” she heard one snicker. It was the dead boy, she recalled. Another boy laughed in response. The young girl slipped on a jacket and glanced around the classroom, eyebrows raised, looking like a hopeless, clueless puppydog.
“Watch this,” Dead Boy whispered to Laughing Boy. He moved toward the girl, arm outstretched. After he violated her personal space, he still went further. He cupped her chin with his hand and threw her head back. Shocked, the girl had no words. No witty comeback. The teacher didn’t interfere, and no students intervened. They all laughed. She was left defenseless.
It wasn’t necessarily the motions that hurt her- it was the laughter which pierced her ears and echoed eternally in her head. She was a fragile girl, susceptible to the vulnerability and embarrassment which made her cheeks flush ruby red. They were complemented by glistening diamonds tumbling down them.
Dead Boy never apologized; Innocent Girl never forgot.
She stood there facing the quilt, watching the streams of tears coming from his peers, thinking...
Are we supposed to forgive those who’ve hurt us once they pass away? Are we supposed to forget about the poor impression they gave us, the bad decisions they made, the torture they put us through? Are bullies suddenly heros the instant their soul departs?
Laughing Boy still strutted through the hallways. He was no hero.