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I know how it all started.
The years of misery and hate.
Or at least, I think I know. I have a theory. And if it’s right, then everything I’ve believed in my entire life will turn out to be a lie.
Okay so, that might be a little too dramatic. But still.
I’m freaking the fuck out.
It’s been twenty-four hours since I saw the drunk version of Zach, followed by his book with his name on it and the broken pencil.
Ever since then, I can’t stop the flood of memories.
Zachariah Benjamin Prince.
There’s something so powerful about his name that things that I had buried inside of me are rushing back to the surface. All of them about St. Patrick’s.
But for the first time, I’m not thinking about how Zach and his minions made my life miserable. I’m not thinking about their pranks. I’m thinking about my retaliations. The things I did. The things I said.
I’m thinking about our first meeting.
I spent the entire last night thinking about it, digging out memories, trying to remember everything that I can about the very first time we met.
By morning, one thing was clear in my head. So, so clear that I’m surprised how I ever forgot it in the first place.
His twelve-year-old handwriting and my ten-year-old reaction to it.
Now I remember that I saw it.
We were supposed to do lines in detention and I caught a glimpse of the ones he did in his notebook. And because he was such a jerk to me, I taunted him about it. I got so mad that I thoughtlessly said the first thing that came to my mind at the time.
It’s like ants crawling all over your page. It’s gross. Your handwriting is the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.
I can hear my voice in my head and it sounds mean. It sounds hurtful.
The following day, after lunch, I found my notebooks torn up and destroyed in the school hallway. And then, smirking, he walked up to me and looked at me like he wanted to crush me under his school boots. As another one of my retaliations, I punched him in the face.
Over the years, when his gang called me names, I called them names. I called Zach an imbecile. An illiterate, aimless leech who’d forever suck on his father’s bank account. I called him a burden to society, a waste of space.
When they hid my homework, I smiled at them and told them that they should at least thank God that they chose me to pick on. If they had chosen someone like Zach, they wouldn’t even have any homework to hide. Because everyone knew that he hadn’t turned in a single project since he started going to school.
Does he even know how to read? Highly doubtful. I bet he never learned.
And that’s just one example.
For years, I’ve ridiculed Zach’s intellect and his lack of focus in school. Both to his face and privately.
What if it all started with one little comment that I made? What if the years of vendetta and hatred could’ve been avoided if I hadn’t said that one thing?
I’m not going to go all martyr and say it’s all my fault. But I’ve always blamed Zach and maybe, just maybe, I’m not entirely blameless myself.
“Blue! Look!”
Art’s voice brings me out of my thoughts. I’m at the kitchen island, prepping dinner, when he comes rushing in.
I’m so glad he’s over what happened to him last week. These days if I’m watching him, he doesn’t get to go anywhere further than my front yard. Where I was flung over Zach last night, to be specific.
“Look!” he repeats, spreading his arms wide, grinning.
