Bad Boy Blues(48)

So weird, these broken pieces.

Did Zach break it? Why would he? Why would anyone?

Just as I’m about to close the book and set aside the ruined pencil, I see something.

His name. On the front page.

It wasn’t there the last time I saw the book. Meaning, he must have written it recently. Probably a few days ago.

But why does it look like it was written years ago and not by him but by someone much, much younger?

Actually, no.

I’m wrong. I’m so fucking wrong. Age has nothing to do with it.

It’s written by someone who mixes up uppercase and lower. Someone who wanted to use cursive but a few letters later, changed their mind and started writing in print.

It’s written by someone who has difficulty writing.

It’s written by him.

The guy who’s sleeping now, but who drunkenly stumbled out to my cottage, and watched the stars from under my window.





I’m dreaming.

Usually, my dreams are of my bike and the endless road while I’m riding away from this hellhole.

But tonight, I smell sugar and I see blue. Both the color and her.

She’s on top of me and her curly, cloud-like hair’s all around us, making a curtain. And then, I roll over and trap her under my body. Hiding her from the world.

She can’t get away now and neither can anyone see her.

She’s safe. Her job’s safe.

But then, she’s laying me down on my bed and covering me up with my blanket, caring for me.

What the fuck?

I feel her taking my shoes off. I want to tell her to get away from me and leave me the fuck alone but I don’t have the energy.

I never should’ve drunk this much. I don’t even drink anymore. Maybe occasionally but nothing like I used to. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Jesus.

If drinking makes me dream of her and these nice, warm things, then I’m quitting tomorrow.

Fuck.

I need a cigarette.

Why am I not smoking? Why am I suffering through headaches and intense cravings when I can take the easy way out?

Oh, right. Because of her.

She wants me to suffer. She wants me to not sleep, to go through withdrawals.

Of all the people on this planet, I had to be an asshole to one girl who wouldn’t take my shit lying down. Who wouldn’t leave me alone.

Fucking excellent, Zach.

Even now, her fingers are in my hair.

They’re running through the strands, caressing my forehead all the way down to my jaw. Everything pulses on my face. My jaw, my cheeks, my teeth, even.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but… I’m sorry,” she says. “I mean, I think I’m sorry, Zach.”

Everything goes black before I can ask her what she is sorry for.





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.