My Motive

You got a lot of nerve to ask that question.

WHY?

Because you were never my friend, you watched as they laughed, harassed, and beat me. You witnessed as they poked their fingers at my eyes, forcing me to raise my hands to protect my glasses which allowed them to punch me in the gut. Do you know how many pairs of glasses those bullies broke? But I don’t remember you telling them to stop. You never yelled, “Stop picking on him! Stop teasing him! Leave him alone!”

You saw me suffer for four straight years—from 9th grade until graduation day—and you did nothing, said nothing, and felt nothing. And now you ask, “Why, I did what I did?

You gotta be kidding me. You watched them break me; then you thought I would do nothing. You know that a man can only be pushed so far before he breaks. We have our limits. We have our alone time when we plan our revenge. While you watched them break me into little pieces, I was on the gun range planning my revenge. You never consoled me by touching the tears running down my cheeks. You watched me cry like a newborn. You were a spectator as the bullies smashed me into my locker. And then Miss Iwannabe A. Bystander, you sauntered away.

You saw me isolated in the school cafeteria sitting alone, eating my baloney sandwiches, drinking my High-C, and tasting abuse. For five days a week—Monday through Friday—you saw a lunchroom table with one lonely kid praying, no begging for love or friendship or a morsel of kindly attention. But you never sat next to me nor sent me a text. You treated me like dog shit, like a leper. You never bothered to say, “Hello” or “Good morning” or “How are you doing?”  But when your girlfriends glanced in my direction and giggled out my high-school-given name, “LOSER” you joined in. And remember what else they called me: poor white trash, ugly turd, weirdo nerd, and the gross kid. I recall how you sat silently pretending I was invisible. I was not a boy made out of stone but rather a mentally fragile kid in need of love. And as all your girlfriends swore out loud that I’d never be kissed or have sex. They, like all bullies, loved causing me pain.

Well, every once in a while the bullied get even with a bully. That’s called role reversal. I call it justice. After our graduation, I started planning my get-even event. Patiently I waited four years for all the components to fall into place—the weapon, the plan, the venue, and the target.

So now that you know my motive, I don’t want you to ever ask me “why” again.