I admit it. I was not a nice person in high school. No doubt about it. I could have been friendlier. Kinder. More compassionate to others. But I wasn't. I just wasn't. I was dick. It's how I survived. I regret my behavior now, but at the time, being a dick was something I had to do. Being a dick held the other dicks at bay. Does that make sense?
Isn't that what everybody does? You try hard to survive and you do your best to minimize the emotional scarring. And in the bubbling cauldron of hormones we like to call high school, sometimes the act of surviving isn't a pretty thing. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty. Sometimes you have to draw blood.
There was one kid in high school...I made his life miserable. His name was Jason Sullivan. The poor guy was super awkward. He was rail-thin, gangly, and he always smelled funny. Nobody wanted to sit near him due to his foul odor. I don't know how to describe the smell. My best shot: half wet dog/half exotic spice. The girls sure as hell stayed away.
Jason had this goofy demeanor about him. He never actually walked anywhere, it was more like lurching. Whenever he spoke it sounded like a dying duck. Puberty had hit him hard in all the wrong ways. And because of this, he never talked much.
His glasses were three sizes too big. I blame his parents for that one. Come on Mom and Dad. Show some fashion sense. You had to know those glasses did not fit him. He wouldn't have looked so awkward if his parents had actually taken some interest in his well-being. But that doesn't excuse me for the way that I treated him. I never really saw his parents around.
Being the teenage asshole that I was, I jumped at the opportunity to ridicule Jason. He was an easy target. And seeing that I was not particularly gifted myself, I gave Jason the most childish of nicknames: "Gay Jay" (pretty lame, huh?).
Over the course of freshman year, I convinced the whole class that Jason should be addressed with this cute nickname. And it stuck. Aside from the teachers, everyone called him "Gay Jay." It did not seem like he loved his new name. I never heard anyone call him Jason.
And he was always bullied by the tough kids at school. You know the neanderthals that expressed their emotions through violence alone. I personally witnessed Jason getting his ass kicked three or four times after school. Some of the beatings were pretty bad. Did I step in to help him? Hell no. That wasn't part of my plan for survival. I truly regret that now. Just once I should have done the right thing.
I can remember one "fight" was worse than the others. Punches to the face. A kick to the teeth. Jason lying on the ground, blood-soaked and battered. Sobbing. Uncontrollably sobbing. Almost growling. And through the tears, him pleading "Why?" Over and over again.
But the others were watching, so I couldn't back down. And I spit on his face and gave him a kick to the ribs. I heard a crack, and a mute whimper, and knew I wrong. But I lived to survive another day.
High school was 20 years ago now. Saying that out loud is just depressing. Man, I am getting old. My kids will be in high school soon, and they will learn to survive just like I did. I'm not really worried about them though. They are good kids filled with kindness and love. They have lots of friends, and their friends are good kids, too. I know they won't make the same mistakes I did. They won't make enemies.
I realize now that I never introduced myself. You probably don't like me after my confession. But I promise that's not me anymore. I have changed. I regret all that I did. I wish there was a way to take it all back. I wish there was a way to make amends. Make things right.
My name is Peter. I live in the cozy confines of your average U.S. suburb. The big city is a 20-minute drive down the road. I am newly divorced (still licking my wounds). I have a son (Preston, age 13) and a daughter (Katie, age 11). My kids are my everything. Like most parents, I would do anything for them. I would die for them if it came down to it.
I earn a living as a construction worker. It's not glamorous, but it pays the bills. For the most part, I have a good life. I have a roof over my head and food in the refrigerator. I haven't gotten fat or bald (yet) like some other guys my age. Once the divorce wounds heal, maybe I'll even start dating again. Maybe I'll find a lady to share the rest of my life with. But this is wandering off topic.
I came home from work today, and nothing was out of the ordinary. My ex-wife has the kids for the evening, and I have been looking forward to a night of relaxing and catching up on my Netflix shows. That reminds me, have you seen the show "Narcos?" I know it's been out for a while, but I am knee-deep in it right now. I just started Season 2 and I can't stop binge watching. Pablo Escobar was one stone cold mofo. He had no problem killing innocent people to get what he wanted. And he is actually a sympathetic figure in the show. I've got to hand it to the show's creators. They made him likable. But again, I am getting off topic.
After showering, changing clothes, and eating dinner, I went outside to grab my mail. The stack of mail was rather large, as it had been a few days since I had last checked my mailbox. I went back inside and started to weed through the junk mail and catalogs.
There was a belated birthday card from my sister (I turned 38 last week) and a bill from my cable provider. Then, I noticed a red envelope that I assumed was just another birthday card. There was no return address on the envelope. I thought that was odd. Doesn't the post office have a policy that they won't deliver mail without a return address?
There wasn't any postage on the letter either. Whoever sent me this letter must have placed it into my mailbox by hand. For the life of me, I couldn't think of who would have done that. Most of my family has moved away from this area. And my guy friends would never send me a card for my birthday. That's just not something dudes do for each other. Buy me a beer, maybe. But not a card.
I opened up the envelope and saw that it was a birthday card. But this card was different. It was handmade. Not something you could buy in a store. The front of the card was completely black, except for a yellow circle, which was positioned in the top middle of the card. No images, no words, just blackness and a yellow circle. It appears that someone had colored it black with a magic marker. It was not solid black but disjointed, like someone had scribbled it black in a hurry.
When I opened it up, I immediately felt a wave of panic. Two photos fell out of the card onto the floor. I picked them up. The first one I recognized right away. It was my senior picture: the photo taken of me in 1996 during my last year of high school. I hadn't seen the photo in a long time, but I remember it quite well.
The other photo took me longer to figure out. But when I did, I nearly collapsed. It was a picture of me and my two kids. We were at Preston's (my son's) baseball game. The game had just finished and Katie (my daughter) and I were waiting for Preston to gather up his baseball gear. We were then going to head to our car to drive home for the night.
Clearly we were not aware that a photo was being taken of us. There was no posing. In the photo, Preston's back was turned and he was actively putting gear into his duffel bag. Katie and I were facing the camera, but our bodies were at an angle. You could only see our profiles. Katie...it appears that she was laughing. Her head tilted back slightly and that beautiful smile spread across her face. God, I love her so.
My mouth was open and I appeared to be talking. No, I was telling her a joke. I remember it now. This was only two days ago. I had just told Katie a stupid joke...one that only she would find funny (because she gets my sense of humor like no other). Whoever took the photo must have been very close to us. Within ten feet at the most. How can I not remember someone taking our picture? That would have been so out of place.
But that was not the worst part. There were words written inside the card in red ink. They are easily the most terrible words I have ever read. Just thinking about it now. It's overwhelming.
"Payback's a Bitch (and then you die)"
Next to the writing, there are holes that appear to be bite marks. WTF. The holes are round, but not perfectly round. It almost looks like they came from the mouth of a large canine. It doesn't make sense. The handwriting is child-like. I am freaking the fuck out. I am about to drive over to my ex-wife's house. I've got to check on the kids right now. I need to see that they are safe.
I ran to my bedroom to grab my car keys. My mind is racing. Is this karma rearing its ugly head after 20 years in hiding? And why the hell does my bedroom smell like wet dog? I don't own a dog. I don't deserve this. I have changed. I was just a teenager and didn't know any better. Why now after so much time has passed?
I will never forgive myself if my kids are hurt. My kids...I've got to go NOW. I will let you know how this all plays out. I've got to get to the bottom of this, if only to protect them. Please, do me a favor. Keep your eye out for anything suspicious around my house. I must leave...NOW.
Submitted May 05, 2017 at 11:01PM by Kid_A_Esq http://ift.tt/2pOZwPT nosleep
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