Confession
By Jeff Provine
I’m sorry for what I did. I’m sorry it happened. I’m sorry he’s no longer with us.
It was junior year; I was in the back of the room. It was a “high stress environment,” the psychologist said. The jury agreed. They all told me I was just a kid caught in a much-too-fast world, swept up in the maddening current of extracurricular activities, homework, high school. I didn’t argue with them.
I remember the morning very plainly; I told the court that I couldn’t remember a thing. I was in the back of the room, rereading This Side of Paradise, ignoring the ignorance of everyone around me. Then it happened.
He started it. That means nothing, but he did start it. He said something, I don’t know what. I never heard. It was in that low, evil whispering that he always said things. Things that you could never quite hear, but you know what was meant. He said them simply to hurt me, simply to kick me down. They had been hurtful, and the fear and hatred and misery well up in you like a demon rising screaming from the pit. Laughter followed, the mocking laughter of the whole class. First his friends, then, knowing he had gained his precious acceptance by demeaning me, he himself overcame his fear and laughed. The rest of the class howled along with herd mentality. Everyone, teasing, mocking, ridiculing, disparaging, murdering me.
Retribution came swiftly, as it should. Justice cannot wait, or it isn’t justice. I placed the book down carefully; it was my only friend. I sprang over my desk, knocked a laughing fool out of the way, and leapt onto my prey with fury. The laughter stopped. I took him by the throat and hissed a warning, a final ultimatum, a hope for peace between us. His eyes filled with terror, but he couldn’t show that to his friends. He merely sneered and asked what I, what powerless, worthless me, would do.
I squeezed. It was all I could do; the torment had to end. I never knew I was that strong. I could feel the life give way under my fingertips: the sinew bend, the cartilage crack, the muscle give its last twitches, his wicked specter glide from the body toward its just eternal torment. He would never hurt again.
I had my punishment: two years in white-walled juvie with plenty of time to read, several hours of group therapy listening to other hurt kids, meetings with a friendly psychiatrist once a week. It was kind of fun.
I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it again. I want to do it again.
Everyone knows it, and no one wants to admit it.